Affairs Of The Heart
by StakeMeSpike04
Summary: INDEFINITE HIATUS. Chp 38 Up! The plot's reversed, the story alternated: The choice is the same. Will different circumstances change the battle between her heart and mind? And will the obstacles they face in this reality change their Fate?
1. Prologue

**Updated A/N**: To those who are visiting this story for the first time, welcome, and may I present "Affairs of the Heart", previously known as "Masque of the Red Rose". The title, as you might or might not have seen, was changed, as the story seemed to mesh and mold itself into something completely different than I had previously sought. Yet, here it is, and I'm hoping you enjoy! Now, as for the summary…

-

_After the death of Christine's father, despair sets in, and the orphaned girl is lost. It is only after Christine becomes engaged to her childhood sweetheart, Raoul de Chagny, she realizes life can be lived. But, when Christine starts to realize that something is missing, fate cannot be stopped. When she meets a masked stranger unexpectedly, Christine knows that she cannot live without music, and seeks his guidance. But when Christine must choose, which will she decide: a life of harmony…or of music?_

-

If anyone has read any of my stories thus far, I welcome you back most graciously. If it is your first time, then I humbly request that you review to my updates, because they are my soul reason for writing. On one more note, please know that the first few chapters will not be very eventful, but please bear with me! Please continue to check back for updates, I promise I will have the two chapters up only when I receive at least two reviews, for I already have it written. Thanks, now read on!

&&

**_Prologue_**

"_Yet if hope has flown away  
In a night, or in a day,  
In a vision, or in none,  
Is it therefore the less gone?  
All that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream."_

- Edgar Allen Poe, "A Dream Within A Dream"

Night fell thickly outside her bedroom windowpane. Creamy, glossy fog glistened in the twilight upon the glass that reflected every tangible ounce of pure darkness. It was as if the absence of light pasted an aura upon the room unusually devoid of the bright, glorious colors of sunshine. Without it, there was something different. Something _eerie_. Something she did not recognize and therefore sent a tingling sensation down her spine. Perhaps the warm rush of the summer wind rustled beneath the crack of the window. Perhaps not.

Outside, trees grew copiously and menacingly. The leaves, even in the midnight hour, were gleaming green-black in a beautiful sort of way. The full moon shone off of them, mirroring the starless night sky as they whistled and twitched with a soft moaning sound. Even from her mirror into the world outside her chamber, she could still see the faint outline of the city of Paris, never sleeping. Twinkling lights blinked at her from afar, their weak glow unsupported by the deep void that was the ebony sky.

Night was always the best time to reflect. From a young age, the night would never fail to astonish her, seize her imagination. After all, the best stories were always told at nighttime. Ones of valiant heroes, gruesome creatures, and beautiful beings born from the sea. In her mind, she could always picture the stories. There was something about her that made her see things not for what they were, but for what they had been, or what they could be. Nothing was literal. Not exactly, at least. She lived in dreams, not in reality. She lived in stories, in fantasy.

But that had been when she was a child. She was no longer a child, and could not pretend to believe in trolls and giants, in magic and other-worlds. No, there was only the now. Where she was, her life, and who she was to become were the only things she had to care about anymore.

Still, at one point it had been nice to believe in such things: when believing was not frowned upon, or laughed unpleasantly at; when others believed with her, even if to just please her, and nothing more. With her innocent soul, everything was plausible, and everything was good and kind. Life had been simple, if not glamorous, as a child. That was all one could hope for. To feel love and to dream.

But she no longer had dreams. Not since her father died.

Losing her father was something she had considered a mistake. She always called it _her_ mistake, as if she had some say in the matter. She had blamed herself in a small, selfish way, saying she had let him go. That she had let him die. But, to contradict herself, she knew that he was dying for a long time. She knew that, at some terrible, ill-fated time, she would have to except her father's death. She just didn't expect it so suddenly.

She looked back fondly at the days with her father. Him playing the violin or playing the fiddle. Him telling stories to her, holding her close, caressing her hair. Him playing with her by the sea, or singing together in the softest of voices. Him being her father.

But he was gone now.

By something that could have only been good fortune, that was no longer her demise. Even before her father died, when she was a little girl, Christine could always remember sharing her childhood with another.

Her one playmate and childhood friend had shared a summer with her. Just one. It wasn't enough for a lifelong friendship, but it was enough to sooth the soul of a violinist's lonely, starry-eyed daughter. During their short period of companionship, Raoul had been the only one to join in the joys that was Christine's father's existence. To hear his deep, gentle voice as he told stories of Scandinavian descent and the sound he made when Christine and Raoul would surprise him from behind. He always laughed, wrinkles collecting delicately at his eyes, giving him the look of unyielding patience and kindness. Raoul could remember him during those days. That is, until Raoul left, and did not come back for years at a time. And when he did come back, he would be gone again for a longer period. And so on.

When her father died, Christine had left the conservatoire in where she studied voice. She had promised herself never to sing for anyone, ever again. With the death of her father came the unrealized grief that struck her so forcefully, she was never the same. Laughter diminished from her eyes. Her feet didn't move as quickly, or as lightly. That was, until Raoul came back. Upon hearing the passing of her father, Raoul quickly consoled the (to his bewilderment and confusion) young woman to whom he had always shown great devotion. Only a short period afterwards, Raoul had come to a decision, one that would change both their lives entirely.

Christine looked down at the stone-welded ring upon her left hand. It was perfect, a clean-cut, impeccable diamond set on a thick band of pure gold. She slid the ring off her finger and, moving closer to the window, read the words engraved on the inside. _Little Lotte._

Soon after the proposal was made, disapproval followed quickly. Raoul's brother, Philippe Count de Chagny, had pursed his tight, frowning lips, telling his brother that his disobedience with unaccountable, and that he knew perfectly well that he could not marry a Swedish orphan. Still, Raoul persisted, and could not care less the fate that held the two lovers in its mist. It took many months of persuasion, of lingering stubbornness, and of true devotion before the relationship was consented. Although disapproving, Philippe could not stand in the way.

So it was to be written: Christine Daae and Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, were to be bound in holy matrimony. But there was a slight waver in their love affair. Raoul had to promise his brother that he and Christine would remain engaged for a period of five months, where, as his brother acquiesced, Christine would live with them during that time before their marriage. It was only on that condition that Raoul could save Christine from a mirthless existence.

She was happier than she had been for a long time. Her father's death withstanding, Christine had the feeling that she was going to be _alright. _That life after Papa Daae could not only be worth living, but worth _something_.

The blankness of night consumed her sight, until it was no more. All that was left were the vague sounds of the night, drifting through the window as the summer night faded along with the evening lights of the metropolitan that beckoned her soul…


	2. What I Love Best, Lotte Said

A/N: Ah, reviews! Though they be in short supply,I did promise that I would update once i got the two required. But please, I would beg that you do review! If most of you are writers yourselves - which I tend to think -You mustknow how important reviews are to a amature, though learning writer. Take a few minutes to do that for me, pweez.

-'-,-'----

"_Thou wouldst be loved--then let thy heart  
From its present pathway part not!  
Being every thing which now thou art,  
Be nothing which thou art not.  
So with the world thy gentle ways,  
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,  
Shall be an endless theme of praise  
And love--a simple duty_."  
- Edgar Allen Poe, "F--S S. O—D"

She thought she heard a faint rustling sound somewhere around her. Unless she was caught in the foggy haze between wakefulness and slumber, she _was_ sleeping.

It was only after the second sound came that she furrowed her eyebrows. Surely it wasn't morning already? She had only just fallen asleep! Then, when the crash came, she was quite certain she was not dreaming.

Jumping up, alert and fully awake, Christine's eyes traced the bedroom to see where the commotion had been issued forth. In the corner of her room, huddled in a mass of white maid's clothes, was a small someone holding protectively fresh sheets now drenched in water. Shivering with shock, the person tried with effort to heave herself to her feet, her embarrassment showing on the only part of her face not concealed by water, flower petals, or distraught, tangled hair.

Running to the girl's aid, Christine took the young person by the arm and helped her hoist herself up. When the maid gained her balance, her bottle-green eyes wide with distress, she shook back long, thin locks of the dullest, straw-colored blond. Her pale cheeks, usually clashing horribly with her white-yellow eyebrows, were now hued with the deepest scarlet a face could obtain. "_Merci_," the young maid choked out, her voice scratchy and deep. "I'm so very sorry, Madame. I was picking out your clothes for today when I remembered I had left your bouquet outside the door, trying to balance the sheets. I ran back to get them when I tripped over the tapestry and tipped over the vase of yesterday's flowers." She looked up meekly. "I'm sorry. I've been mumbling again. I'll just leave you now." When the girl turned to hurry for the door, Christine caught her gently by the arm and turned her around, slowly.

"It's alright, Nicole. It's really no trouble. Here, let me help you with the sheets." Taking the damp linen from the maid's twisted arms, she walked over to the doors that led to her private balcony and swung them open, letting the room be drowned in a sea of champagne light. Smiling into the brilliance of the day, Christine hung the sheets over the side of the balcony and rung them out.

"You are too kind, Madame, too kind." Even though Christine was barely a few years older than her chambermaid, Nicole insisted on calling her employer's fiancé only the most respectful of titles. Christine had, by reputation or by personal consultation, instantly become the most favorable mistress the servants could ever hope for. She was kind, sweet-tempered, patient, and above all else, forgiving to the farthest extent. She was so likable, even Nicole, a poor, orphaned child (very much like Christine herself), felt she could sometimes open up to the caring, naïve-minded girl.

Christine turned to look back at the girl, the corners of her lips upturned in a fond way. "Please, Nicole, you embarrass me. You make me out to be some sort of saint." And indeed, in the pale morning sunlight, Christine almost _looked_ like a saint. Wearing her nightdress of white in the daylight made her skin glow and her hair look all the more radiant. Nicole looked at her in awe.

"Madame-."

"I've told you before, Nicole, call me by my name, please."

"Yes Mad….Christine." The girl blushed once more. "Monsieur Vicompte requests your presence this morning. He said he had a great surprise for you."

"Other than this beautiful arrangement, perhaps?" Closing the doors behind the two of them, Christine walked over the vase on the floor, picking it up gingerly and smelling the intoxicating aroma. "Thank you for delivering them, Nicole."

The chambermaid curtsied. "Your welcome. Let's get you dressed; we've wasted precious time cleaning up the mess. I mean…." The girl bowed her head, deeply disgraced. "I've wasted time."

"We both have. Let's not keep Raoul waiting."

When Christine was finally prepared to meet her fiancé in the dining hall, she was followed close behind by the small, scarecrow-resembling girl, who was dismissed as quickly as she arrived with a wave of Philippe's hand. Scurrying away, Christine's eyes tracked after the girl, remorse filling her as she realized she did not want to be alone before such an assembly.

Philippe was sitting at the far head of the table, scrutinizing Christine's appearance top to bottom in the most scrupulous manner. A man of many pleasures and annoyances, Philippe was perhaps the polar opposite of his charming, pure-hearted younger brother. He had laid before him several papers, and with one quick nod of, what seemed approval, his eyes slid back down towards their towering presence. Raoul, in deep contrast, looked up at her with shining eyes. Getting up from his seat beside his brother, he rushed forward and took Christine into his arms.

"Good morning, Raoul," Christine greeted him back, falling into his gentle embrace securely, as if into a mold. After a moment, he drew back from her, taking her alabastor hand into his own and planting a kiss above the second knuckles.

"It is now." He smiled rapturously, leading her back to the table and pulling out her chair for her to sit down.

"Mademoiselle Daae could find her way to the table quite easily, Raoul, could she not?" Philippe said in an amused tone, the sparkling eyes in his expressionless face never leaving the mahogany table.

Raoul blushed in both irritation and shame as he resumed his seat next to his chaperon. He was about to retort when Christine settled her hand on Raoul's arm, silencing him at once.

"But of course Raoul knew that. He was simply being a gentleman." Again, Raoul found that color came easily to his cheeks, and when Philippe pursed his lips in a vexing way, he could only smile back into Christine's adoring eyes. When the awkward moment had been lifted, Raoul took both of Christine's hands in his as a few maids scrambled to set a plate in front of the new arrival.

"I have a wonderful idea as to what we should do today."

Automatically, Christine resumed the role of childlike companion. "Do share," she begged.

Raoul let the sweet moment last before satisfying her innocent curiosity. "I hope the life of a soon-to-be Vicomtess is surely not as dulling as you make it seem, mademoiselle?" he teased graciously.

Christine looked at him with mock stern eyes. "Would that make things difficult for you, good monsieur?"

"I have a very hard time believing you could make anything difficult, _mon amour_."

Christine laughed silently whilst Philippe rolled his eyes. Wiping his wheat-colored mustache promptly and placing his napkin on the table beside his glass, he quietly made away before his stomach became too upset.

"Raoul, you're making me very anxious. Please tell me what you have in mind."

His eyes glittered with what would have been maliciousness, had not Christine known he could not be capable of such a quality.

"Today I shall be taking you to the _La Grande-Jatte_, if it so pleases you, Christine."

She could not hide the elation from her face as soon as Raoul had spoken the adventure in which they were to partake. Her cheeks a vivid color, Raoul could not help but muffle a chuckle in the back of his throat.

"I knew you'd be delighted. We'll leave as soon as you're ready."

The breakfast in front of Christine had not been properly set down before she dove her fork into the meal and gracelessly engulfed a mouthful. Placing the utensil beside her plate and wiping at her mouth daintily, she immediately proclaimed, "I'm ready."

-'-,-'----

The sky above the Seine River was the most brilliant shade of cerulean to ever spread across the heavens. The sun, a dazzling star set in a diamond-cut, dazzled the not-so clear waters below as they gently lapped around the bay. Numerous sail boats and small gondolas floated past on the peaceful summer's day, their journeys along the canal causing small waves to bounce and break.

Along the dirt path two lovers strolled indolently, Christine's rather heavy skirts clung uncomfortably to her with no light breeze to assist her. The parasol she held loftily above her head did not help matters much, as the sun's glare was so merciless that dew drops of moisture had appeared upon Raoul's brow within minutes of their arrival. She stifled a yawn of exhaustion as they walked on, Raoul nodding his head and smiling at random to people who were lolled out on picnic blankets. Women in colorful bonnets were attended to by handmaids, fanning themselves as they sat under the protection of large, willowy trees. Men in dark trousers sat on benches playing chess, while others leaned over the side of the bank, fishing poles grasped tightly between their hands. Children clad smartly in scarlet, rose, lemon and periwinkle-blue ran by as mothers looked on disapprovingly, watching as they skidded up dust as they scurried about.

Christine held loosely at the crook of his arm, her fiancé's hold on her that of a trusting gentleman, adoring of his lady. She looked up at him. He was dressed appropriately in a light-colored jacket, the cuffings of smooth, mother-of-pearl rings. He wore trousers of medium blue and beneath his jacket a cream-colored shirt. He was smiling, his two rows of straight, even teeth pulled back by his peach-hinted lips. He was her best friend in the world; she always remembered him as a sweet child, a good-tempered boy with a fondness for stories, and for a certain storyteller's daughter. When he caught her staring at him, she looked down at her feet, unseen by her long skirt that traced dirt along the hem.

"Shall we sit?" he asked politely.

"I sometimes think you read my mind, Raoul."

They came across a stone bench beneath two poplar trees, the hill of which rode down softly to the muddy pool of the river. He held her hand as she took a seat, bringing out a fan from her waistband. As he sat beside her, he watched as she gazed out into the Seine, her eyes never traveling from a certain spot.

"Why me, Raoul?" she asked quietly, her dark eyes unseeing and focused.

He knew what she meant. He had been expecting her to ask that question for some time now, and, regretfully, it was at this moment that he least expected it.

It took a few moments' silence before he responded. "Because I love you, Little Lotte," he answered softly, but with full certainty at he looked into her unmoving face.

She furrowed her brows, gently creasing the crown of her forehead like a swan's wings. She turned to look at him, her face full of childlike pity. "You're a Vicompte, Raoul. You have noble blood running through your veins." She stopped to consider him. "I'm a poor orphan with no title to my name at all, no dowry, and only a sick foster mother as my legal guardian." She placed a warm hand to his cheek, stroking his temple lovingly. She smiled forlornly. "I shouldn't be your wife," her voice was a sigh of distress, her eyes glassing over with a shield of sadness.

He looked her straight in the eye, his gaze hard and steely. Then, without so much of a warning or signal, he caught her dainty chin with his forefinger and thumb and pressed his lips onto hers, a full and deep kiss. Caught unawares, Christine didn't move for a second, but slowly caught on as his lips brushed slowly and passionately against hers, weaving a trail for her to follow. She reacted after a few seconds' hesitation, placing her limp hand on his other cheek and returning his kiss.

When he finally pulled back, breathing slowly, he never moved his gaze from hers. "There is only one reason in the world to keep me from marrying you, Christine Daae." His voice was not that of her gentle childhood friend, but of a husband who was being stern and unmocking to his heart's companion. "And that is if you do not love me in return." He took her hands from his face and placed them on her lap, still holding onto them tightly. "Do you love me, Christine?"

In response, Christine tilted her chin upwards innocently, claiming his lips with her own. "I do," she whispered, her face inches from his.

-'-,-'----

You know the drill. Review and I shall update soon! Reviews only inspire, gentle listeners..

I remain your obediant authoress,

StakeMeSpike04


	3. Help Me Say Goodbye

A/N: Welcome back! Thank you to those who have reviewed! Some of you have specific likes/dislikes as far as pairings go, so at this stage (where I don't have so many reviewers), I'm not going to say what the main pairing will be. I'm trying to keep you all, lol. Please bare with me, you will all get your jollies from your favorite pairing. I won't say which I like better yet. Hehe. But, you'll find out soon!

* * *

"_And this was the reason that, long ago,  
In this kingdom by the sea,  
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling  
My beautiful Annabel Lee;  
So that her high-born kinsman came  
And bore her away from me,  
To shut her up in a sepulchre  
In this kingdom by the sea."  
Edgar Allen Poe, "Annabel Lee"_

-'-,-'----

"Oh please, dear God, let them not leave!"

An anguished cry of torment rang from the grimacing lips of a certain young ingénue, sprawled out across a rather large, messily-made bed reaching for a fallen shoe.

"Please Nicole, whatever you do, don't let him leave without me!"

The second girl drove off as fast as her short legs would carry her. Retrieving the lost item, Christine slid it onto her foot in a hassle and, with haste, checked herself in the mirror.

Her reflection was not a promising one. The cheeks that should be been faintly blushed were now red with pumping blood. The russet hair that should have looked smooth and silky now looked wild and tangled, falling about her shoulders in an untamed manner. Pursed lips that should have been colored were now smeared and frowning grotesquely. In conclusion, she looked utterly foolish and entirely unprepared.

Giving a sigh of frustration, Christine resigned. It wouldn't matter- they were late as it was. Grabbing the skirts of her petticoat, she quickly dashed down the stairs in a frenzy of anxiety and panic. Her feet trod like lead weights upon the satin carpeted stairs and each sound ricocheted through the entrance hall. Upon reaching the bottom of the grand staircase, her hand grabbed the railing before falling to the floor.

"I'm…here…" she heaved, ignorant as to how unladylike her appearance must seem.

Raoul rose from his seat in the sitting room unflinchingly and came to her side, slightly tentatively. "Oh, Christine…." He looked pityingly at the girl, but at the same time, entirely bemused. "What happened?"

Christine held up her hands in aggravation and resignation. "I was afraid I wouldn't be ready in time!" As Philippe came to join them in the hallway, she quickly smoothed out her skirts and patted down her hair. _No, he would not see her so disheveled._

"Is there a problem?" he asked politely.

Once again, she pursed her lips, shaking her head back and forth.

Raoul's confused stare did not waver. "Christine, we gave you over an hour to get ready…"

"I…well, that is to say…" She looked sheepishly into his eyes, the color draining slowly to return to normal. "I seem to have….well, I was standing on the terrace…and there was my book just sitting there…"

Raoul smiled knowingly. Just recently Christine had shown an immense interest in their private, rather heavily-equipped library. It was one of Christine's favorite rooms in the manor, amongst several others. Usually, when Raoul would have to go out for a business proposal where he couldn't take her along or had to be away for several hours, she would spend the long time away from him reading in the quiet study, marking places in several volumes and bringing out others from their dusty homes. She flipped threw the pages eagerly, greedily consuming the words between the covers. The stories were timeless classics, historical articles, myths, mysteries, even some that she knew by her own copies in the tiny, adored library that had been her father's and hers. Together they had spent many an evening in front of a small fireplace or candle, huddling closely so Christine could hear her father's voice over the crackles and whispers of the flame.

Philippe looked unimpressed at her choice of activity before in important, well-planned day. Raoul merely looked amused.

"Ah, that does seem very much a thing for you to do, my darling."

She gave him a look that plainly said, _Now is not a good time to tease me._ Nevertheless, she was smiling.

"Don't argue with the truth. It'll get you no where."

"I don't recall doing such a thing, do you?" she said coyly.

Philippe, watching their charade, had had quite enough. "I for one am perfectly ready, and seeing as the two of you are content to tease and flirt, perhaps I should leave the two of you if it is more entertaining?" Blushing furiously, Christine did not answer while Raoul mumbled something incoherently whilst suppressing a smile. As Philippe strode away irritably, Raoul couldn't help but slip into Christine's ear, "Yes, but when he teases and flirts on his own time, it's just fine."

-'-,-'----

The manor house was as silent as the grave. Nicole stood by the window, watching as three figures emerged from the house and approached the carriage waiting for them. The first one walked briskly, arrogance like an aura around his person. His head was drowned in white sunlight, yet he seemed unfazed. The second was less brisk and certainly less arrogant, though in his step there was a mannerism in which he seemed sure of himself, sure of the world. He was proud and unafraid, and as he stepped over the gravel it was as if he were walking on air. The third person was entirely dissimilar to the other two. Her decorum was not like theirs, in which money emanated from the very tips of their hair. Her figure was one of a person who was feigning happiness at a time were they were silently grieving, when the person inside was crying while the outer one was rejoicing. Though the smile plastered on her face was sincere and true, the lone maid knew her mistress still mourned the loss of her father.

She turned away from the windowpane, allowing the emerald velvet drapery to fall back in place. She neatly tied the gold-woven rope holding it back, shielding the view at once.

The hallways in the east wing were cold and dark. She shivered. It usually wasn't this chilly inside the estate during the summer months. She would have thrown back the curtains, opened the windows and let the fresh air in, but the paintings in the hallway were far too delicate for exposure.

_Is this what Christine will become under this speculation…too delicate?_ She looked back at when Christine had first come to live here. She was withdrawn, quiet and hollow. Nicole had seen a change in Raoul since Christine arrived. He was more attentive, more responsible; she had overheard Philippe saying how the change in Raoul really was remarkable, and if for nothing else, he was grateful to Christine for that. She had readily adapted to living nobly, but whenever Nicole was alone with her, she had often seen the carefree, naïve young girl who was left orphaned. But whenever Philippe was around, the sparkle in her eyes diminished, the laughter gone. It was a seriousness that overcame her.

Nicole didn't like it.

She made her way down the stairs and turned into the long passageway that ended in the kitchen. A loud clanking noise alerted her that someone else was here. Throwing open the door cautiously, she prepared herself for what was to come.

A powerful, pungent smell enveloped her senses as she entered the large cooking area. Amidst the smoke and steam was the figure of a plump, dimpled woman wearing a stained apron and two huge pot holders. It was a strange sight indeed – the woman in question was stirring something, humming tunelessly in a raucous voice. Her cheeks were red as early radishes and her salt and pepper hair was pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck. She didn't hear Nicole come into the room, and only when a loud sneeze exploded into the air did the cook finally turn around.

"Beat, heart, beat! What do you think you're doing, sneaking around like a little thief?" Her voice was high-pitched with surprise, yet contained no note of hysteria. She had the expression of kindness that didn't go away, yet there was something stern and reproaching about her, a no-nonsense kind of behavior. She removed the mittens and put her hands on her hips, staring at the girl unblinkingly, but not quite looking at her. "Well, they left, did they not?"

"They're gone." Nicole felt the most at home with the lady in front of her. She was the closest thing to a mother she had ever known. Though she was often rebuked for being too _this_ and _that_, the matronly woman was both affectionate and protective of the small, clumsy girl.

"Good, good. Help me here with supper if you've nothing to do." She held out a ladle to the girl who obediently took it. "Never helped that you've had no proper education in household affairs. Taught you the best I could, I did, but I'm not an expert in cleaning and washing. The stove is my one true love and he'll always be. Won't ever cheat on him." She laughed genially. Nicole said nothing. "Yes, Odette won't stray far from the boiling and charring and bruising.

"Now girl, fetch me some ginger from the cabinet, will you? Dinner tonight is going to be decent, though I hope it usually is. The three of them are going to the Opera tonight, and who knows who they will invite home for supper?"

Nicole raised her seemingly nonexistent eyebrows. "I thought they were going out for business?"

She nodded her head vigorously. "Of course they are, but listen, will you? They're going to the Opera to discuss their newly acquired position as patron. That's why _l'agneau _went with them." Odette had always referred to Christine in that affectionate way, never quite noticing how it affected the girl when she was not around.

Nicole nodded once more. But she knew it was to no avail. Odette couldn't see her, anyways.

"Did the little pet get off alright? I could hear stumbling from in here…" she frowned, brushing the slight glisten at her brow with her towel as she turned back to the stove.

"Christine was reading and had to rush to get ready. I watched from the top of the stairs." She lowered her voice, her eyes downcast. "As wicked as this might sound, there are times when I feel bad for her…"

Odette turned around sharply, narrowing her eyes dangerously. "What are you getting at, **pitying** the girl? Do you not _see_ how well she is cared for? How much she is **loved**?" She was practically steaming as heavily as the pots. "See now, Christine is an extremely lucky young girl. You, on the other hand, should be pitied, Nicolette! You, who have been orphaned from babe hood! Shame on you for such words. Shame!" She wagged her finger at the girl, busying her hands on her apron.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

The cook sighed, tone changing to that of negotiator. "I know what you meant, girly. I do pity the girl. To some extent. She has recently lost the most important person in her life. In times such as these, it takes those closest to her to help lift her up from the dark…" She tapped her nose knowingly.

"Keep in mind, we must help her…despite her assimilation, she's still a bit clumsy, no?" She winked at the girl, predicting the embarrassment Nicole would have. With reddened cheeks, Nicole mumbled something indiscernible.

"Oh course _you_ are. But Christine isn't as excusable. We might need to give her a bit of a hand…"

-'-,-'----

Her heart was pounding in her throat when they reached the Opera Garnier. As she gazed upon the gargantuan structure, her visions of what the Opera House might have looked like were easily surpassed. It was, indeed, the most beautiful piece of architecture she had ever laid eyes on. Raoul seemed to catch her elation.

"If you think the outside is a sight, you will truly be inspired by what you see inside…"

-'-,-'----

Sorry it took so long. _These things do happen_…

Oh, and guess what reviewers? **_I saw Phantom on Broadway today_! **That's why I finished the chapter, my Muse had come back to me. Now I'm going to get a start on the next chapter.

Please review!


	4. Who Is It There Staring?

A/N: Something has come to my attention that has both shocked and dismayed me. I haven't provided a disclaimer! So, here it is:

I fully accept the possibility that I do not and probably never will own rights to any work of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay or Andrew Lloyd Webber.

There, I hope that's sufficient. Also, just a word to some of the reviews: It really tears me up that I have mixed reviewers, some who like one pairing and dislike the other. I know this sounds very susceptible, but I cannot really tell what the pairing is going to be, as it will give away the ending. All I'm going to say is that if you have read the tale of _Masque_ by Edgar Allen Poe, the ending is…well….you'll just have to see. But I promise, my intentions really aren't to trick any of you into reading my story. On that final note, here's the next chapter.

-'-,-'----

"**_Wanderers in that happy valley,  
Through two luminous windows, saw  
Spirits moving musically,  
To a lute's well-tunèd law,  
Round about a throne where, sitting  
(Porphyrogene!)  
In state his glory well befitting,  
The ruler of the realm was seen."  
"The Haunted Palace" by Edgar Allen Poe_**

"If you think the outside is a sight, you will truly be inspired by what you see inside…"

It was the first glance of the Paris Opera that made her fall in love with it. The grand staircase, the impressing ceilings, the marble columns and colossal statues, everything drew her in and spoke to her in the most compelling of languages. _Art_.

She could not feel herself walking, being led by Raoul more deeply into the theatre. All she knew was the exquisite environment in which she became enchanted, not noticing the curious gazes from the Opera employees as she trailed by. Philippe made the smallest of coughing sounds whenever Christine found herself staring too long at the intricately painted ceiling, or smiling gawkishly at every turn.

When she finally came out of her reverie, they were in front of the managers' office at the end of brilliantly lit corridor, of where Christine had no idea they had come to be. They could hear voices coming from the other side of the closed door, one of composed nature and the other of deepest exasperation.

"Really, monsieur, it is nothing to be worried over..."

"Twice this month, Panaut! It seems only likely that they have not disappeared…"

"Really sir, do you think that so easily! By heavens, it is so easy to assume that it was simply _I _who am the thief, and not the _ghost_!"

There was a pause in the dialogue, one which seemed to drip with tension. Then, "If you could choose your wording as carefully as you do your post, surely your position would not be so cumbersome. You have a family to look after, do you not?"

"But of course, sir, of course!"

"Then I suggest you bring an end to blaming your actions on others. Good day."

While an unabruptness that threw the eavesdropping party back, a distraught man of short stature and balding red hair came rushing out of the office. With a curt nod to the two gentlemen and the lady, he hurried by without a word.

"Ah, Messieurs de Chagny! Quite the punctual pair you are!" Leaping up from behind a sturdy, well-fashioned desk was M. Debienne, one of the two current managers of the Opera Garnier. "A pleasure to see you both, as always is. And who, might I inquire, is this charming young lady?"

"May I present to you Christine Daae, your newest patron to the Paris Opera." Philippe did nothing to mention the fact that Christine and Raoul were engaged. Neither of them did anything to make this point across.

M. Debienne took her hand and kissed it in a gentlemanly fashion, smiling beneath his mustache. "A pleasure, mam'selle."

"The pleasure is mine, monsieur." Christine said brightly. She could feel Raoul gently squeeze her hand from behind. "If it is not too blunt to say, monsieur, your theatre is amazing. I have not been to a more beautiful place."

"A compliment unworthy of myself, surely, but a welcome one at that!" He gazed at the three, waving his hand as if to shake himself from his stupor. "Certainly you must have the grand tour! If it so pleases you, mademoiselle, I would be more than happy to have myself and M. Poligny take you around the theatre and show you how we run."

Christine's eyes twinkled. "It would be an honor, sir."

He smiled back at her. "As would it be for me. But certainly, someone like yourself has no interest in business affairs. Would you care to watch the rehearsals while we have an aggravatingly tiresome meeting?"

Raoul's eyes met hers and he nodded approval. Christine took the chance and helped herself out of the managers' office.

Her opportunity was a lucky one. With the managers of the Opera giving her a tour, she could not see things from her personal view. _An innocent look around, that's all this is…_

The theatre was as big as it looked from the outside. In little time she found herself passing various doors, some with singing coming from their mysterious depths while others ringing with silence. The thickening darkness was only penetrated by the gas lamps lighting the way, helping the girl in the otherwise pitch black. For some time she heard no sounds at all, which seemed hauntingly unusual, especially in a place where music rang throughout the walls every second of the day, rehearsals or no. She quickened her steps, fear gripping her tightly as her throat constricted. She tried to see ahead of her, but even with the lamps lighting the way she could not see a hundred feet in front of her.

When a noise sprang forth from somewhere around her, she stopped at once. Where was that sound coming from? She couldn't tell exactly what it was, but it seemed to come from somewhere in the shadows. Icy cold terror wrapped itself around her as she looked around anxiously. _Don't be silly. There's no one there. _

"H-hello?" she called into the darkness. Her voice was young-sounding and meek, and she quickly tried again to eclipse her former uncertainty. "Is someone there?"

She gasped inaudibly. To her left her eyes spotted something manifest from the corner of the hall. Two luminous, floating orbs were looking straight at her. They were deeply golden, and had they not been of human height, she would have thought they had been the eyes of some poor stray. Her interest with the pair captivated her completely, and had she not heard another sound would she continue staring and approach them in curiosity.

She turned her head towards the sound and quickly back towards the golden light. It vanished.

"Hello? Who's there?" she spoke again rather rashly, her irritation prominent in her tone.

"Who are you?" a voice answered back contemptuously.

Christine's brows knitted together. "I asked first," she replied stubbornly. She didn't like the fact that a stranger that she couldn't see was toying with her. She felt embarrassed for her former fright and tried to cover it over.

"Yes, but you're not the one with the advantage here. You see, you cannot see me, though I can certainly see you. You have long, curly brown hair and a very pretty dress on…"

Christine smiled despite herself. It was the voice of a girl, possibly around her own age, she surmised. "Thank you," she called into the gloom, her voice gentle and polite.

"You're most welcome. Now, please state your name and your business here."

Christine couldn't help but comply, trying to keep her face straight as she did so. "My name is Christine Daae, soon-to-be Vicomptess de Changy. My business here is to inspect and take in a full account of the proceedings of the Opera."

Suddenly, from deep within the shadows came a girl with long, golden hair, wearing a light blue ballet costume with matching ribbons in her hair. She was indeed around Christine's own age, yet seemly smaller than her. Her eyes were sparkling, and her lips were in a charming smile. "See, that wasn't so difficult. My name's Meg. Meg Giry, daughter of Madame Giry."

Christine gave a small curtsy. "Nice to meet you, Mademoiselle Giry."

"Oh please" she scoffed, "call me Meg. I'm not quite the prima ballerina here, but I suppose I might be some day." Her eyes danced with mischief as she smiled wickedly. "Now come along, Christine Daae, there's much to see of the Opera! You are merely by the dormitories, and there's nothing remotely interesting here." Taking a hold of Christine's arm, she linked hers and walked quickly, as if they had been friends for a long time.

"Now tell me, Christine, what are you doing here all alone?"

Grateful for the companionship of someone other than Raoul and Nicole, Christine allowed herself to be questioned by the unknown ballerina. "Raoul, that is to say, Monsieur Raoul de Chagny, is currently in a very important meeting with the Count and M. Debienne."

They turned a corner, Meg's hold on her ever so tight. "If you are to be married to Raoul, then why are you not in the meeting with them?"

Christine looked stricken. "Because I'm a woman, and women don't get involved in business!"

Meg looked skeptical. "Is that so?"

Pausing to look at her, Christine frowned. Her voice was slightly twisted with doubt. "Of course…I mean, you would think so, right?"

Meg merely looked amused at her companions' mystification. They walked on, finally finding light where there had been none. They were on the stage, so to speak, and the stage lights and scenery were set up for rehearsals. Meg led Christine to hide behind one of the sets to better view the rehearsal. "Look there, Christine. That's M. Reyer, the director of the orchestra. And those girls are my friends, the ballerinas. They like to spread gossip a lot, so don't listen to a _word_ they say." From her first impression of Meg Giry, Christine concluded that she fancied herself important and high in the Opera standings. She couldn't help but smile as the girl held her head in pride.

Christine's eyes traveled to the flies above. "And what's up there?"

Meg waved her hand in absence. "Nothing special. Just the men who work the stage sets. Of course, there is something _else_ up there…"

Christine narrowed her eyes in suspicion. She could tell that this girl _too_ liked to tell stories. "What else could be up there besides some dusty stage sets?"

Meg looked around, eyeing those nearest and deciding they could not hear their conversation. "_The ghost_!" she whispered frantically.

"…_it is so easy to assume that it was simply **I** who am the thief, and not the **ghost**…"_

Christine looked worried. Surely a man with good sense would not believe in such things as ghosts? Yet, it seemed more likely that a young girl who never left the Opera House would easily believe that such fascinations could exist. Meg could read the uncertainty on Christine's face, and was immediately incensed by it.

"You don't believe me, hmm? Look for yourself, Christine Daae! If you are to stay here long enough, go searching in the shadows and see what illusions you might find! Things happen around here for no good reason, and there _is_ an explanation, I promise you!" Her cheeks were reddened as her lips contorted in anger. "Now if you excuse me, mademoiselle, I must get back to practice. Good day to you!" Flying off as fast as she could, Christine frowned and realized she must have hurt the girl's self-esteem.

But there were no such things as _ghosts_!

Yet, even as she assured herself of this, a vision of golden eyes prickled the back of her neck with unforeseen dread…

-'-,-'----

Sorry about this short chapter. I promise to make my next few chapters longer than the first batch. But, something to keep you going: Erik is coming soon! As in, his appearance will take place in due time. Be patient, good things come to those who wait, I promise you…


	5. In That Night There Was Music In My Mind

Thanks to all of you who have reviewed! I especially want to thank those of you who critique me, and thanks to the person who corrected my use of "Vicomte". It's spelt in so many ways around the internet, I should be more careful from now on as to my spelling of French words. If I were French, it would be so much easier…

So, to make up for those of you who are simply missing Erik dreadfully, here is the promise I have kept! Read on and you shall find him somewhere within my realm of words…

-'-,-'----

_"In visions of the dark night  
I have dreamed of joy departed;  
But a waking dream of life and light  
Hath left me broken-hearted.  
__Ah! what is not a dream by day  
To him whose eyes are cast  
On things around him, with a ray  
Turned back upon the past?"  
_Edgar Allen Poe, "A Dream"

It wasn't until later that night did the vision of golden eyes come into her thoughts again. The regular dinner party of Philippe, Raoul and Christine had been accompanied by the two managers of the Opera, Messieurs Debienne and Poligny. Both gentlemen sat stately and slightly pompously, as though to mirror the expression of the Comte. He sat at the head of the table, Raoul on his left whilst Monsieur Poligny sat on his right with Monsieur Debienne next to him. Christine sat adjacent to Raoul, listening politely at the conversation but really not having her mind on the lofty discussion being held.

As curious as her nature was, surely she had not _imagined_ eyes looking at her from the murkiness of the shadows. Looking back, she realized that it could have very well been little Meg, though she contradicted herself in asserting that Meg's eyes were brown, and did not have a distinct _glow_. She wondered why this memory addled her so.

She was forced to come back from herself when addressed by one of the gentlemen. "Do tell us, Mademoiselle Daae, as we are anxious to know. Is there some secret engagement that we are not yet aware of?"

Christine couldn't help but blush as such a comment literally stole her from her absentmindedness. Shyly, she put her fork down onto her plate with a gentle _clink_ and held her hand in the air, the gold ring shinning spectacularly in the dimming candlelight.

"How marvelous!"

"Truly wonderful!"

She smiled. Raoul took her hand from under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. She looked into his eyes as they traveled to hers, giving the tiniest of winks possible.

"We had been planning to announce the engagement tomorrow evening at the social gathering of the Marquis de Douay. They have all been anxious to meet this new young lady that seems to have enraptured our dear fellow here." Philippe was nothing if not exposing, and it was Raoul's turn to glance at his brother.

Christine froze. Tomorrow evening held such a tormenting concept to her that she couldn't help but panic. It would be her first true entrance into French society, and she was not sure if she knew all that was expected of her. So many possibilities tore at her person, leaving nothing left but little hope and a faint glimmer of the evening ending without scorn and dismissal.

It was when the four gentlemen excused themselves to the sitting room for cigars (Raoul told Christine in confidence that he personally detested smoking, but was tolerable for gentlemen's sake) that Christine took sanctuary in her room. Stripping her hair from its imprisonment, she reclined on her divan, its red velvet pillows supporting her head. With so many thoughts swimming like blind fish in her mind, she slipped generously into an undisturbed and untroubled slumber.

-'-,-'----

When she awoke next it was to a weakly lit room, the cool, opaque moonlight spilling in through an open window. In a foggy sort of daze, she slowly sat upright and looked around the room, noting that the lamps that were lit when she fell asleep were now burnt out and cold. Even as the moons shone, she could tell its luminescence was fading, and that dawn would be approaching soon. Yet she didn't feel compelled to fall back asleep, not with her muscles screaming at her from the position she had in her spontaneous sleep.

She considered waking someone, but thought better of it, and decided to walk around the manor. Although her feet were bare, she still wore her clothes from night before, thus being the reason for her sore muscles. One comfort was the feel of the floor against her normally tightly-constricted feet, cool and pleasant.

She walked down the stairs lightly, being careful to not tread on the creaky stair that the house was famed for, and gently walked into the library. Turning the gas lamp ablaze on the desk, she glanced around the room. She never felt more appreciative of this stronghold more than when she was condemned to the outbreak of restlessness. She smiled fondly at the shelves, scanning the titles with her eyes, favorably studying the ones in different languages and caressing the spines of those with French titles. She settled on a book about Operas in the seventeenth century, taking a chair behind the desk, scanning through the book enthusiastically.

In was not until the door was thrown open did she practically fall out of her chair.

"Why, would you look at the likes of you, Christine! Such a little nose-in-a-book, aren't you? Can only be expected, after yesterday's incident." Odette stood in the threshold on the room, hands on her hips, still wearing her nightgown. She had hastily thrown a robe over it, tying the tassel messily and braiding her hair as she spoke. "Come now, girl, the sun's almost over our heads, now!"

Christine rose from the chair shakily and threw open the window dressing. She smiled at the woman's exaggeration, rolling her eyes so that she could not see. "I'm really very sorry, Odette, please forgive my inattentiveness." She turned back around, her dress swirling as she did so. She bowed her head in mock dishonor, her smirk still clinging to her lips.

"Don't you go teasing an old woman, miss. I can only stand so much, and I won't stand that!" She strode over to Christine, took her firmly by the arm and led her out of the room, clicking her tongue.

-'-,-'----

_Pace. Stop. Pace again. Stop again. Pace more, turn on heel, stop. Pace…_

It was like some crazed, nonsensicial dance that she couldn't cease to exercise. Her heart was pounding in her throat, her pulse was quick. She could feel the blood running through her veins, scorching hot and magma-like.

_Pace. Stop. Pace…_

She looked at the clock on the wall. Five minutes to the eighth hour. She shook her head feverishly. She couldn't do it, she couldn't do it….

The pressure was so enormous that she felt her whole head was on fire, that she could burst at any moment. She was prepared for sure, this time. It was only the aching thought of what lie ahead that scared her half to tears.

The door burst open and she jumped out of her skin. There, standing with a single white rose in his hand was Raoul, everlastingly compassionate Raoul, more handsome than ever before. He was dressed in evening attire, cut cleanly and sharp. He held out the rose to her, his eyebrows raised humorously.

"Shall we, mademoiselle?"

She couldn't help but return his smile, taking the delicate flower in her hand and linking her arm through his inviting one.

During the ride there, Christine's hands were intermittently fidgeting, fussing with the frills on her periwinkle blue satin dress, or trying to break her fingernails. Raoul grasped her finger, a forewarning glinting in his eyes. _Calm down, _those gentle eyes seemed to say. _Everything is going to be fine._

Upon their arrival Christine's heart virtually stopped. She wasn't prepared. This meant so much to Raoul, and she knew she was going to ruin everything. She wasn't like the rest of them.

But before she could even collect her thoughts she was thrown into the atmosphere, an overpowering aura of wealth and extravagance. Every eye seemed to turn to their faction as they entered, Raoul's arm linked with hers, yet his eyes didn't seem to leave her face. She would have turned to look at him questioningly, had she not been so focused on making a good first impression.

Everywhere she looked were men in evening dress, very much like Raoul and his brother, and woman dressed in beautiful gowns, their faces painted prettily and their hands in gloves. They either sat or stood in small groups, danced or talked among themselves. It was quite extraordinary to a person who had only seen nobility as an outsider, and not as someone who really would be one of them. Her self-consciousness never lessened, however, and only grew when people began to take notice of their arrival and approach them.

"Philippe, Raoul, so happy you could join us." A man of middle age shook both men's hands, his face expressionless due to his lack of strong features. Yet even for his age he had thick, auburn hair atop his head, eyebrows and sideburns. His eyes traveled to Christine, who shyly answered his inquiry. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure?"

She immediately took this for a question and addressed herself. "Christine Daae, monsieur." She hoped that she wasn't being too forward or impolite. She thought perhaps she should have let the Comte or Raoul introduce her, but trying not to give herself away, she stared straight in front of her.

His voice was jovial, if not at first recognized on first impression. "Welcome to my home, Mademoiselle. So good of you to come." He turned to look at a lady beside him, whom Christine had not at first noticed, and placed a hand upon her shoulder. "May I introduce my daughter, Lady Sorrel de Douay?"

Christine smiled politely at the young woman in front of her. She was truly the most beautiful person Christine had ever seen. Like her father, she had thick, auburn hair, shining and radiant like the setting sun. Her almond eyes were stormy gray, accentuated by long, black lashes. She had fair skin, carved features and a rosy complexion. She wore a beautiful gown of silver silk, bringing out the color of her eyes. She smiled enchantingly at Christine, reminding her of a Greek goddess out of some mythology text. She took a step forward, lightly touching Christine's arm. "_Enchanté_."

Philippe grasped her stretched-out hand, placing a gentlemanly kiss on her hand. "A pleasure, as always, Dear Lady."

"Thank you, Comte. You make a woman blush." She smiled politely at Raoul, holding out her hand to him as well. Christine noted as Raoul tensed slightly, his eyes never looking at her but kissing her all the same. "Madame," she said quietly.

Her smile seemed to cool, the color in her cheeks diminishing. "Come, Christine, let me introduce you to the ladies."

Christine looked back at Raoul, who tried to look reassuring, but only succeeded in making her less sure of herself. Why had he acted so strangely in front of this breath-taking, charismatic woman? What had happened between the two of them?

She was pulled over to a crowd of indifferent-looking woman, hardly talking as the two young women approached. Christine's hand was held tightly by Sorrel, who once again smiled pleasantly. "Ladies, I'd like for you to meet Vicomte Raoul de Changy's fiancé. Christine...Daae, is it?" She looked apologetically back at the young girl, who only nodded, swallowing hard. The other women raised their eyebrows, studying the girl before them.

"Well don't be impolite, you three, Christine deserves the courtesy of your introductions!" Sorrel seemed disturbed and insulted by their lack of efficiency, clinging tighter to Christine to protect the girl from insecurity.

A girl with curly, frizzy black hair spoke first, her voice edgy and rigid. "I'm Lady Huette de Laperouse. Nice to meet you, Miss Daae." She was short but had a commanding sort of presence, though it wasn't altogether mean. She seemed like someone who didn't like to be bossed around, yet appreciated rules and order. She had stern looking eyes but when she smiled, it was warm enough.

The other two girls were very similar in appearance, though with a closer look Christine could tell they were not related. Both of them had blonde hair of medium length, though one of them had a darker shade of blonde than the other. One of them had drastically blue eyes, while the other, the one with the lighter blonde hair, had dull, muddy brown ones. "We're not twins, if that's what you are presuming, as I'm sure you are," said the one with light blonde hair. Her lips twisted into a smile that hid some secret joke that neither could suppress. She giggled helplessly, whilst Huette rolled her eyes.

"They're actually sisters-in-law, so they are related. This," she indicated the blue-eyed one, "Is Azura. And this," she then indicated the one with brown eyes, "Is Clarice. Azura's husband is the Baron de Vignes. Clarice is his younger sister."

"It must be quite difficult to tell the two of you apart," Christine commented thoughtfully.

"Oh, at times it is," said Azura lightly. "But we happen to manage. I've been married three years this month, so it has been quite a while to get used to." She didn't seem to share in the joking that was in her sister-in-law's eyes as she batted her lashes flirtatiously.

"I suppose you should be glad Grant is established thus. Being with his own sister would be quite a scandal in today's society, do you not think so?"

Both Azura and Huette scoffed in disgust, looking at the girl in revulsion. Clarice gave Christine a huge wink, which helped immensely to ease her self-consciousness.

"I do thank you so much for introducing yourselves. I hope you will pardon my leave of you, Christine dear, but there is someone whom I need to speak with. Excuse me." As she walked away, with all the gracefulness of a deity, all three women let out a long sigh.

"We would advise you to mind yourself around her, Christine." Huette looked darkly after the retreating woman, squinting her eyes in distrust.

"Why would you say that?" Christine asked solemnly.

Azura crossed her arms haughtily. "You can never be sure what is going to take with her. She seems at times two-faced. She can't be trusted."

Christine was surprised. Before, they seemed more welcoming to this girl than they were now. But they seemed to mistrust her. Ever suspicious, Christine asked more.

"I'm sure you've heard of what occurred between your Vicomte and Lady Sorrel?" Clarice said the latter name with some form of sarcastic idleness. Azura and Huette gasped in the back of their throats warningly, and Clarice turned to look at each of them and immediately hushed.

"I've surely heard…what?" Christine held a trace of pleading in her voice that was not easily masked. All three of them looked around uncertainly. They seemed to relax when they noticed people approaching.

"Ah, back so soon, Sorrel?" Huette piped up.

Her eyes were bright as she dragged Philippe alongside her, followed closely behind by Raoul, looking weary. "Christine, dear, you didn't tell us you had the gift of singing!"

_Oh no, _she thought. She was just starting to feel comfortable, and now this was happening…

"Christine, you must sing something for us!" Sorrel was clasping her hands eagerly, watching Christine's face like she was above to receive a great present. Everyone seemed to watch Christine, and it was all she could do to keep herself from becoming ill.

"You-," she gulped, "You want me to sing?" She looked around the room helplessly, searching for some sign of defense. "Now?"

Even Raoul seemed supportive, despite the person asking her. "Christine, you should! I haven't heard you sing, since…" His words caught in his throat, and he seemed less sure of himself now. He couldn't even say it, she noticed. She was glad. It would be ever the more hard if he had mentioned it.

She looked around the group once again and sighed in resignation. She nodded, bowing her head in acceptance. Leading her by the hand to a grand piano in another room, Sorrel, Philippe and Raoul stood all around her, followed quickly by Huette, Azura and Clarice.

Someone whom Christine did not know sat at the piano, looking up at her expectantly. "What shall I play, Mademoiselle?"

She looked at Raoul desperately. He nodded, saying nothing, but smiling assuringly. _You can do this…_

She swallowed again. "I….I can only remember the lyrics to _Le Prophete._"

He smiled kindly. "I think I may be able to play that. The first act, then?"

She nodded. As he began the bars of the aria, she turned around to face the group, closing her eyes, begging herself not to shake. Clenching her fists tightly, she took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

Despite the fact that she had not sung in a very long time, her voice rose to the occasion as if she had just been practicing that day. All the room seemed to quiet as she alone performed, opening her eyes and looking at each of them in turn. She unclenched her fists and held her hands at her side, not nearly trembling as much as before. The further she got into the song the more sure she became, and as she reached the climax of the song her voice soared sweetly and with ease, charming the entire room. The song ended, and all stood in rapture of her quiet genius.

Sorrel wiped at her tear ducts with a handkerchief. "That was beautiful, Christine."

All clapped enthusiastically and, with some pride, she curtseyed. She tried to smile, but all she felt was a terrible, hollow hole in the pit of her stomach. _Run._

"Thank you. Excuse me." Her voice sounded raspy and on the verge of tears. She grabbed her skirts and fled, running into the hallway outside the room that the party was being held.

Dry sobs seized her throat even as she ran down the hall. Her head throbbed painfully from the tears that would not come. Her heart wrenched in her despair, and she couldn't see as she tried to further herself as much as possible from the people who asked so much of her and didn't even realize.

She had sung for no one after her father had died, and she had made a personal vow to never sing again. In sharing her voice, it was as if she were realizing his death into such a powerful way that she was forgetting him. She could never do that. She refused to share something so personal with people that simply _did not understand._

Deciding she was far enough, she leaned against a wall, sobs wracking her entire body. She tried to control herself, but it was to no avail. The grief that she felt was unbearable, and she didn't want to stop until the hurt was entirely gone.

For minutes she stood alone and weeping, caring not how it would sound if someone were to come by. As her sobs became less hysterical and consistent, she heard a sound from somewhere around her.

"H-hello?" She choked out. She grabbed her throat, swallowing the fire that slide down her esophagus and wincing as it burned painfully.

A voice spoke, so softly and pleadingly that she couldn't help but cease crying altogether. "Pardon my eavesdropping, mademoiselle. I heard crying and came to see who it was."

She blushed dreadfully as she realized this stranger must have heard her all along. "It's quite fine." She was curious, however. She couldn't see the person, yet the voice was so consoling and wonderfully soothing that she couldn't help but find out more. "Where are you?"

A shape stepped out of the shadows and stepped into the moonlight. A figure in fine, expensive evening dress stood before her, clothed in black. He was tall, and as she looked into his face, she noticed a white mask that covered it concretely. Her innocent curiosity was sparked, and she felt completely intrigued and forgot her sorrow.

"I'm sure you did not the leave the room for the same reason as I did, most likely." In her tone she tried to appeal some sort of humor, but it was wasted on him. He tilted his head to the side, considering her.

"You could say I left for a more provocative motivation."

His voice ran chills down her spine. It was intoxicatingly lovely, and to listen to it was like listening to the most ethereal voice on earth. No, it _was_. His tone was mysterious, and he ignited something within her that sent shivers throughout her body. When she said nothing, he spoke again, this time more matter-of-factly.

"You have a lovely singing voice."

"Thank you-"

"But it is far from perfect."

She knitted her eyebrows. What did this man insinuate by that? Who was he to say that her voice was not perfect? Surely she knew that already, but who was he to judge?

Her voice contained a note of hurt and suspicion. "And what, might I inquire, gives you right the say such a thing, _monsieur_?" The last word was said with resentment that she could not disguise.

He considered her again, which only made her all the more wanting of his response. He agitated her in a way she thought was not possible for anyone to do. She was usually so even-tempered, but this stranger was different.

"Let's just say, mademoiselle, that I am a master in several of the arts."

She scoffed, putting her hands on her hips. "Is that so? Well, I don't suppose you could teach me what it is exactly that I am doing wrong?"

He seemed taken aback by her request. "I beg your pardon?"

When she didn't answer right away, she seemed to really think about the question. She had always wanted a music teacher, a mentor, and if this man in front of her really was as exceptional at music as he said he was, surely it would help heal the wounds that she could not seem to mend?

"I….I wonder if you could tutor me. To perform better."

He said nothing, and she wondered if he would get terribly angry. The tension in the area seemed to leak by dangerously, and for a second she wondered if she was safe in the dark, all alone, with a stranger whose face she could not see. Then-

"You would not want me to tutor you, Mademoiselle Daae," he said quietly.

-'-,-'----

That was a very long chapter. Most likely the longest I've ever written. And it was easier than I thought! So yes, dear readers, I expect _many_ reviews! Don't hold back, critique, praise, do whatever you wish!

Off you go!


	6. You Are Not Alone

Hello there. I would first like to apologize for this short chapter…it must look insanely ridiculous compared to last chapter's length. I needed a short break between these two important chapters to clean it up a bit. I would like to thank all my reviewers, who have so much patience with me.

And to make you all happy, Erik is in the next chapter. Cross my heart and hope to get good reviews!

-'-,-'----

"_Now each visitor shall confess  
The sad valley's restlessness.  
Nothing there is motionless--  
Nothing save the airs that brood  
Over the magic solitude."  
_Edgar Allen Poe, "The Valley of Unrest"

She peered at the masked man's concealed face, looking for some sign of assistance as to the mystery she was trying to decipher.

"How do you know my-,"

"Christine!"

She turned sharply at the call of her name. Raoul was treading down the hallway, his coat billowing behind him.

"Raoul?"

She looked back to where the stranger had been standing, but he was nowhere to be found. Christine looked around frantically, wondering if he still might be somewhere near, but vanquished the notion when Raoul's hand was placed on her arm.

"Christine, where have you been? Are you alright?"

One look into Raoul's pitying face and she remembered all her former pain and anguish. Sudden, unspent tears formed in her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. "I'm fine, Raoul. Please, can we just go home?" As much as she tried to disguise it, the sorrow in her voice would not subside, and she felt very much the orphaned child she was that night.

"Oh, Christine." Collapsing into his embrace, she nudged her head onto his shoulder and buried her face in his comfort. "I'm so, so sorry, Christine." She withdrew a quivering sigh as he held the back of her head, caressing her hair tenderly. He pulled back, cupping her cheek and looking into her eyes. "I will never put you in that position again, I promise." She nodded. Grasping her hand, they walked down the hallway and into the courtyard, unaware of not one, but _two_ pairs of gleaming eyes trailing their departing figures.

* * *

Breakfast a few days later was filled with palpable silence. Philippe was quite unaware of the uneasiness that the other two were feeling, and did not slow up at all in his rapid consumption. Christine stared out of the window, looking into the late morning sky and feeling quite the opposite of the translucent, cerulean canvas brushed with wispy white clouds.

Philippe finished promptly and ran off, ignoring his brother and future sister-in-law in his haste to get away for work.

"Christine, I'm going to be gone for most of the day…"

She nodded slowly, continuing to gaze out the window languorously.

"I'll be outside the city, actually, so it may be late tonight when Philippe and I return…"

Again, she said nothing.

He rose from his seat, walking precariously towards Christine, watching to see if she might respond and turn to face him. Slowly, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against her cheek softly, watching her all the while. She shuddered slightly, causing him to wrap his arms around her and hold her for a moment. A few seconds later, he was gone, leaving her alone in the room.

The tears that had not been shed that night slipped slowly down her cheeks. Nature itself mocked her, and in retort she backed herself from the table and made for the front door to see Raoul and Philippe away. Upon opening the door, she gasped as a woman bathed in golden sunshine made towards her.

"Good morning, Christine. Was that just Raoul who was leaving? His brother said that I might call upon you today, as you will have no one to entertain you as they are both leaving for work. Of course, where are my manners?" Lady Sorrel lightly kissed the air next to Christine's cheeks formally, smiling broadly.

Christine seemed momentarily stunned, but after a while regained herself. "Excuse me, I was just simply surprised to see you this morning." She looked over Sorrel's shoulder, watching as Philippe talked to the coachman and then gave Christine a knowing and authoritative look. "Please, won't you come in?" Philippe nodded his head, which only helped to exasperate Christine.

"Thank you, darling." She stepped past Christine, her long scarlet hair sweeping down her back in thick, taut curls. With one further look, Christine squinted against the sun as Raoul and Philippe's carriage rode off into the distance.

She closed the door, looking down at her dress and chiding herself for not wearing something more suitable. Next to Sorrel, her dress was practically a rag, as Lady Sorrel de Douay's outfit was only of the most beautiful, expensive make. Upon first look, Christine surmised that only her fanciest dresses might match this noblewoman's common wardrobe. She came into the sitting room, glancing over to see that Sorrel had made herself comfortable and was gently asking Nicole to bring her a drink. Taking a deep breath, the young girl walked over and sat in an adjacent seat.

Sorrel was nothing if not forceful in conversation. "So, Christine, how are you adapting to the change of lifestyle?" She sat primly, minding her skirts and crossing her legs at her ankles.

Christine attempted to not look unsettled, and tried to regain her dignity at being caught off guard and expected to play host. "It's tough at times, I admit, but most of the time I find it's easiest when Raoul's beside me. In the years we haven't seen each other, it's been…difficult, without him being there for me. He really makes things much simpler for me, even when I don't want them to be." She paused. "I really love him."

Christine's last comment came from her assertion that Sorrel did not care for a word she was saying. Eyebrow raised, she had on the most disdainful of expressions, and she slowly pursed her lips. "Is that so?"

She only met her gaze equally, an unwavering bond that did not break until Nicole came with Sorrel's tea and placed a tray down on a small table in front of them. Christine swiftly prepared a cup and handed it to her, trailing her eyes away from the topic they had discussed.

"I came here today, Christine, to apologize for what happened the other night at my father's affair," Sorrel explained. The sincerity in her voice was now prominent, and Christine could tell from her sorrowful grey eyes that she was truly sorry for what had happened. "If ever there's a time you need to talk to someone, apart from Raoul, you must know that you can confide in me, Christine. I want us to be friends. Good friends. I want to help you in any way that I can with your adjustment."

Putting her cup down, Christine looked at the sympathetic young woman with a mixture of suspicion and astonishment. It was as if she had turned a complete one hundred and eighty degrees, and she was quite taken aback by the comment. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper as she raised the cup to her lips.

Her eyes downcast as well, Sorrel looked into her tea and fingered the rim carefully. "I was wondering…if you might care to tell me what had happened that caused you such distress. It's certainly not my place to ask, but I am curious." She stopped ascetically, shrugging her shoulders prettily.

Christine's cup clattered against her teeth as her resistance threatened to break apart. _Just tell her, _a voice coaxed her inside her head. _What could possibly happen?_

Setting the cup down once more, she wiped roughly at the corners of her eyes and looked at Sorrel, trying to keep her voice level. "My father passed away a short while back. He and I were," here her voice choked, and she cleared it by coughing slightly, "very close. My mother died several years before he did, and most of my childhood was spent with him alone." She looked down at her hands, flattening the front of her skirt unnecessarily. "His…death affected me greatly. He was a great musician, and whenever I sing I'm always reminded of him." She wisely kept out the part of singing only for him, thinking Sorrel might think her extreme.

"Christine, dear." Sorrel took Christine's hands in her own, staring at the girl pitifully. "I could never imagine losing _my_ father. I lost my mother as well, but I had never known her. I'm so sorry for your loss." Christine nodded, appreciative of Sorrel's realness.

They sat awkwardly for a few moments, drinking their tea in silence. When Nicole came to take their tray away twenty minutes later, not much else had been said save for polite conversation and gentle inquiries. Christine led Sorrel to the door, thanking her for dropping by and for her apology.

"Oh, and Christine," Sorrel added, replacing her lace gloves and turning back to give Christine another sad, small smile. "I really am sorry about your father."

Christine only returned the smile partially, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you."

"Oh, and before I forget." Sorrel extracted a rather pedantic and lavishly written invitation, complete with swirling letters and an impressive wax insignia of a family crest. "If you feel up to the occasion, there is going to be another _soirée_ a few nights from now. Everyone that was at my father's affair will be there as well." Her face brightened at the idea that sparked into her mind. "It would be truly wonderful if you were there, Christine! I know that last time wasn't so glamorous, but this time I promise the attention should not settle on you." With a last wave and air kiss, Sorrel took her leave, motioning to the carriage driver that had been waiting for her that she was ready to leave at last.

Christine looked after the girl, and then glanced down at the envelope in her hand. She didn't know if she was quite ready to produce a sequel to last time's event. _When Raoul comes home, I'll see what he thinks…_

She closed the door with her toe, leaning her back against the warm, hard surface that shut out the world. "Nicole?" she called her softly, her eyes slipping shut in relief and mental exhaustion.

Stopping in her tracks as she was about to leave the room, Nicole immediately came to her side. "Yes, Madame?" Her words were tentative and low.

Christine looked down at the girl, an inquisitive flash in her eyes. "Has Lady Sorrel been here before?"

Nicole fiddled her thumbs, becoming increasingly interested in her dirty nail beds. "Perhaps…a couple of times…" She was obviously avoiding Christine's gaze.

"How many are a couple of times, Nicole?"

Finally, she met Christine's eyes, though hers were filled with regret at what she was about to say. "Oh, Christine! Please say that you won't tell a soul! I promised I wouldn't mention any of it to you, but you simply must know!"

Christine took a hold of the girl's arm, leading her to the nearest chair and setting her down. "Don't be afraid, Nicole. You have my word as the best secret-keeper in the world." She smiled kindly. "Honest."

Nicole looked all around her, then, drew into the story very, very quietly. The whole house seemed to make more noise altogether than this one, mousy girl. "Well, Lady Sorrel would usually call very often. Almost twice a week. Then she stopped coming altogether."

"Why?" Christine's brows wrinkled in confusion.

"Because," her voice descended into an even lower tone, "Lady Sorrel and the Vicomte were always predestined to be _married_ someday."

Christine's heart skipped a beat. She could feel herself growing faint, and the room beginning to swim before her eyes. "Raoul? And….Lady Sorrel? But why hasn't he mentioned this to me? Or anyone else for that matter?"

Here, Nicole clamped her lips shut. "I've said too much already, Ma'am! Please, please, remember that you will not mention it! It could be my job!"

Christine grasped Nicole's hand tightly. "Of course, dear, of course. I would want nothing to endanger your post her, Nicole, I'm far too fond of you. But why would your post be at stake?"

Nicole pursed her lips. She would say no more.

-'-,-'----

Next chapter I shall start on right away. Let's just say that you can expect a lot more drama to be going on, now that the secret has been slipped about Raoul and Sorrel. Review now!


	7. I Only Wish I Knew Your Secret

A/N: Thank you for all your wonderful reviews! To answer some of your reviews in a few short sentences, Erik is indeed my Muse. Tehe. And Moonwalking Phantom: He said that because it was a sort of humbling thing. In POTO, as you know, he's not such a great guy. And he knows it. So that's really why he said it.

I just want you guys to know that if I do not update for more than a week, know that I am busy, but also am using whatever time I have to work on this fic. I wouldn't abandon you guys. Just so you know.

-'-,-'----

_**'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,  
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,  
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!  
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?  
Why and what art thou dreaming here?'**_  
- Edgar Allen Poe, "The Sleeper"

It was a peculiar state that she found herself in. It wasn't sleeplessness, rather, it was a strange feeling of being between sleep and wakefulness. It was like a hazy dream when one is fitfully ill, when a cold sheen of sweat covers your forehead and your body breaks into goose bumps. Yet, she was not ill, but she was nevertheless in that state of knowing, yet not.

The sound of wheels against pavement and the clacking of hooves started her from her insomnia. She went over to the window as if in a dream, pulling back the dressings and letting the soft, yellow moonlight spill over the bedroom floor like warm champagne. Coming out of a carriage was Raoul and his brother, both of whom looked very tried and bothered. Pulling a robe around her person, Christine ran down the stairs as quickly and quietly as gravity would allow, pausing at the bottom when Raoul opened the front door, shortly followed thereafter by Philippe. She was quite dizzy by her harrowing journey, for which rush she made she could not explain.

"Christine, what are you still doing up? I would have thought you'd be asleep long ago."

"I couldn't sleep," she replied truthfully, completing the distance between them and looking into his eyes wordlessly. He didn't respond for a moment, from lack of energy, but soon put his arms around her. She rubbed her head into his shoulder, feeling like there had been a gap between for the past few days. "I'm sorry, Raoul."

He pushed her away from him gently, looking her up and down as if she were mad. "You're sorry?" he asked softly, taking her face in his hands. "Don't be ridiculous," he chided gently. Placing a light kiss upon her lips, he once again hugged her.

"Raoul?" he pulled back once again. Baffled by the inquisitive gaze she sent him, he immediately stiffened.

"What is it, Christine"? His tone was muffled with worry. There was something different, something she was concerned about, he could tell.

She smiled beside herself, but the…._something_ that he had seen in her eyes was still there, she was only pushing it away. A battle was being fought in her eyes, and when she finally spoke, she could tell who the victor was. "Lady Sorrel came by today."

"I know," he said quietly, looking at Philippe from the corner of his eye. His brother stood by the threshold of the closed door, saying nothing as a servant came by and took his coat.

"She gave me an invitation." Christine looked down at the envelope in her hand, regarding it as if it were hiding some deep, frightful monster within its paper. "It's in a few days." Her tone was monotonous, and when she stared down at the envelope, Raoul looked down over her bowed head, her cascade of brown curls rippling in the darkness that was only broken by a single lamp.

Raoul said nothing. He took the letter from her, opening it carefully and reading the page, its neat print handwritten. "Ah yes, they mentioned that tonight," he said gravely. He passed the letter over to Philippe, who meanwhile had said nothing, only standing there with a strange expression on his face. Christine looked up, watching him pensively. For some reason she felt like there was something about Philippe that she couldn't trust, something that stood in the way of her liking him. It troubled her deeply, but she ignored it for the moment.

"Well of course we have to go, Raoul, it is only expected." He looked at Christine as if she were nothing but a minor setback. "If you will excuse me, I'm going to retire for the night." He handed the letter back to Raoul, removing his hat as he headed up the stairs.

As he left the room, both said nothing, listening to his departing footsteps. Then, "We really don't have to go, Christine. If you're not ready, then we take some time away from the spotlight of society."

She shook her head, the smile on her face disregarding her fear. "No, Raoul, we must go." She gave him a final kiss before turning back to the staircase. "I think I'll be able to sleep now. Goodnight."

As she trailed up the stairs, Raoul watched her departing figure before looking down at the invitation, then flinging it to the floor in a frustrated gesture of impatience. With the floor echoing his footsteps in a resonating menace, he strode to the living room, staring into the fire of the grate broodingly, watching the flames leap and dance. _What am I doing to her…? _

-'-,-'----

The days passed by with seldom activity and happenstance. During that short, peaceful period, Christine did nothing but be with Raoul. Talking, laughing, reminiscing…

It was almost too absurd to recall that they had been separated for several years. It certainly did not show.

He attended to her every beck and call. He would even personally venture into the kitchen to bring Christine a glass of cold water when they sat in the glare of the summer sun, or bring her a shawl when the evenings were cool. He was nothing short of spoiling, but not so much in a way that it was purely material. He descended upon her all the love and nourishing a woman could wish for, all the support and care she would ever need.

Then the night that she had taken to concern came.

-'-,-'----

The air was young, fresh alive. Within it shone the radiance of young men and women, congregating together in a large room filled with clear, ringing laughter, polite inquiries and good-natured jests.

Oh, how he _detested_ these people…

He would not have been there at the moment, nor at any moment, thereof, had he not deemed it necessary to do so.

After all, he seemed to have quite a talent for following people around.

Just a week ago, he had overheard M. Poligny discussing with an associate of his how himself and a certain M. Debienne were finalizing their retirement, an intention which they wished to see through. He had not been prepared for this, even if he had not altogether expected it. The two men were well in their years, and both had been suffering in the past few seasons from bodily ailments. They were in no condition to run the most famous Opera House in the country, if not the continent. No, he thought it very appropriate that the two men should see an easy, happy retirement and would rest peacefully.

But the fact that he had not been informed…_that_ had embittered him greatly.

He stood within the shadows of the room, doing his best to seem inconspicuous in a rather gaudy atmosphere. He had not been partial to the conversations that were taking place, and more precisely, to the conversations that were taking place in his direction. Several times he had been approached, his very presence in the room attracting people like a moth to the flame. It had been quite simple to fool these ignorant, witless _patrons, _whose support he so greatly did not care for, with lies about his position and with whom he had come. He apologized for his lack of socializing, smiling maliciously behind their backs when they were not watching. No, it was not the pretense that he found tiresome, but the act in doing it that wore him out. For the greater part of the party he remained on the terrace, eavesdropping through the window to catch fragments of M. Poligy's conversation with several listeners. He learned a great deal, but so far nothing had been said yet of who would replace him and his partner, the vital information that he had come expressly for.

Thus, to get a better chance of catching something, he resigned himself once again to the perimeter of the room, staying close, but not _too_ close, to the man in question.

Patience was not his strongest asset, but for tonight, he would wait.

-'-,-'----

The carriages arrived at half past nine under a canopy of velvety ebony that washed across the sky. Christine looked up to the sky and gave a quiet sigh of contentment. Raoul held her hand precariously, looking at her as she stopped in her tracks.

"Do you remember, Raoul, the story papa told us about Frigga, the Norse goddess of the sky?"

"Yes, I remember, Christine," he said quietly, watching as the sparkle appeared in her eyes. She clasped his hands tightly, her eyes still turned to the heavens.

"She was the goddess of motherhood, marriage and love. Sometimes, when I look up at the stars, I imagine that…somewhere amongst them are her eyes, watching over me." She looked at Raoul, smiling brightly. "Do you believe that our fate lies in the stars, Raoul?"

He kissed the back of her hand, looking into her sweet, childlike eyes. "I do if you do, Christine."

"They give me courage, Raoul, and tonight they give me courage to honor you."

"If they give you courage, Christine, let them give me your honor. Shall we?" Extending his arm, Christine took it in mock seriousness and together they entered the great hall.

The evening was a salon being hosted by the Madame Antoinette Marie du Vioget, an older lady in her sixties who was widowed and without children. Invitations extended to those privileged few in society who could afford to hear the ramblings of a few young _philosophes_ about the day and age.

The fixed attention of the room was not on the honored guests, however, giving Madame du Vioget way to greet the newcomers into the party. Christine found Madame du Vioget to be a pleasant woman, with few airs and a personable, down-to-earth nature. _She and Philippe should talk sometime,_ Christine reflected amiably.

In the back of the room sat Mademoiselles Laperouse and Vignes, speaking in undertones and unnoticing of Christine's presence. When Clarice looked up, her bright blonde hair falling over her shoulder, she quickly motioned for Christine to join them in the back of the room. Christine pardoned herself from Madame du Vioget, coming over to speak to the ladies.

"It's so nice to see you again, Christine," said Mademoiselle Clarice, taking Christine's hand and pressing it gently. "We were just discussing our last meeting, were we not ladies?"

"Clarice!" Huette hissed, looking at the girl as if she had uttered some loathsome sware word. "I'm sure Christine does _not_ want to discuss past happenings."

"It's quite alright," Christine assured them, activating all of their eyes to turn skeptically towards her honest brown ones. "I was a bit distraught, but I had hoped that perhaps I could be given a second impression." She smiled dismissively, waving her hand as if to forget the matter entirely.

"That can be easily arranged," Azura assured her, receiving nods from the rest of the ladies.

Minutes flew by as the four got to know each other, giving brief histories about themselves as they lounged and sipped a new sort of spiced tea that had been brought over from Taiwan. While each in turn talked about herself, Christine was about to inquire about something Huette said when something dark caught the corner of her eye. Turning to look to her left, she noticed that the strange, masked man was watching her from across the room. Watching her! For a few moments they merely stared at each other, his gaze unmoving whilst hers was an excitable nervousness, before he finally looked away and made to leave through the entrance.

"Excuse me, ladies, will you? I've just remembered I need to ask someone something."

Leaving behind the three perplexed women, Christine followed the dark stranger out of the door, looking in Raoul's direction to see that he was actively engaged in a conversation with one of the philosophers.

It was dark outside the party room, as it had been in their last meeting place. A ripple of fabric alerted her that he was somewhere nearby, although where she could not say. Then, when a moonbeam fell across the floor, she caught site of his foot and immediately resumed her cat-and-mouse play. In the great hallway, lights appeared all around them immediately, as if turned on magically at that precise moment. By the great oak door he stood, his back turned to her, his hand not quite on the doorknob, as if he were expecting her.

"I know you are following me, but I cannot but wonder why?"

She frowned. His back was to her, yet he knew when he was being followed. He puzzled her in many ways, yet this aspect seemed to puzzle her the most.

"You didn't answer my question the other night," she said simply, as if this explained her entire purpose.

He chuckled softly, a soft sort of husky, humorless laugh. "And what question might that be?"

"You know which question I am speaking of." She was being bold, but she found that his back being towards her aggravated her very much.

He turned to look at her. Again, the site of his ghostly white mask sent shivers up and down her spine, but she disregarded these as she awaited his answer. He was entirely facing her now, his hat in his hand as if he were about to replace it on his head. He didn't say anything for a few moments, but only looked at her. She felt oddly examined, as if he were searching her soul through her eyes to see the very essence she was made of. Then-

"I hope you may pardon my reluctance to tutor you, as you had asked me last time we met."

She had been entirely off-guard by his statement. It was, in fact, the last thing she expected him to mention.

"Excuse me?"

"I had found that your request was quite unexpected, and further more, unreasonable. To ask someone whom you have never really conversed with, and to presume they have full knowledge of the subject you are speaking of, is really quite imprudent." Here he paused, watching her as she slowing began to redden under his penetrating gaze, his accusations making her feel foolish and irresponsible.

"However, since you have not asked something impossible, I may consider your request."

She was completely baffled. He had seemed utterly against the notion of giving her lessons, finding the idea preposterous, and now here he was, saying that he would consider it! Not only did it make her feel mystified, it also left her a little bit suspicious. Not to mention the fact that she was beginning to regret her actions. Did she really _want_ a tutor? And if she did, would she have expected her instructor to be…a bit out of the ordinary?

_I may never get a chance to sing on stage. But how will I ever know that if I do not truly know whether I am any good?_

Here he clenched his fists, not in annoyance, but rather in, she imagined, nervousness. Why would he be nervous upon her reply?

"What do you propose?"

"Meet me at the Opera tomorrow morning. At seven. From there we may be able to see exactly what you do and do not know. I assume you've attended a conservatoire?"

She nodded. He continued,

"At seven, mademoiselle." Giving her a brief nod, he placed his hat upon his head, swirling his cape as he opened the door. When he was just a few feet out of the house, Christine remembered something.

"Wait! Where am I to find you in the Opera?"

He stopped. Turning slightly, so that she could only see the half-moon resemblance that was his face, he said quite mysteriously, "I shall inform you where tomorrow. Do not fear, Christine." And he was gone.

-'-,-'----

Review, please! Reviews make me happy! And when I'm happy, I like to write! (Not to make anything obvious to you guys..)


	8. Here In This Room He Calls Me Softly

A/N: Just to let you guys know, if I don't update for a while, it's because school is driving me up the wall and basketball season is currently happening. Games are every week. I'm sure you guys know what I'm talking about when I say activities preoccupy us. But I _love_ this phic, and will never leave you hanging! If I know I will not update for a while, I'll inform you. For now, I'll try and update as soon as I can. Thanks to all of you fabulous reviewers! Keep the reviews coming!

P.S.: I'm not so sure about this chapter, please tell me if you liked it or not!

-'-,-'----

"**_And when an hour with calmer wings  
Its down upon my spirit flings--  
That little time with lyre and rhyme  
To while away--forbidden things!  
My heart would feel to be a crime  
Unless it trembled with the strings."  
_Edgar Allen Poe, "Romance"**

The dawn was slowly rising above the distant horizon, the sun beginning to break over the flat, green expanse. The blushing color of rose spilled over the bedclothes, staining the sheets as the girl beneath them stirred from her slumber. She wasted no time when she realized the hour; carefully pulling the clinging linen away from her body, she let her feet fall gently to the floor, being careful not to make a sound. She dressed quickly, bringing with her a new riding cloak, sweetly lined with jade satin, a present from Raoul. She frowned suddenly, her forehead wrinkling in distress. She realized she couldn't tell him about her last-minute plans last night, as she stood in the wake of the distressing, and she concluded, potentially risky agreement. It was better to explain it to him later, when she could rationalize and make him see why she had arranged to meet with a person that she, and more importantly Raoul, did not know.

She went to her writing desk, producing a bottle of emerald ink and a plain note card. She sat down, writing in a rapid flourish.

_My dear Raoul,_

_I know by the time you receive this letter, you'll be worried sick that I might have run away. Never think such a thing._

_As I write this down, I'm preparing to go to the Opera this morning. I'll explain my motives as soon as I return. _

_I apologize in advance for causing you anger or torment. I hope what I am about to attempt does not reflect badly on you whatsoever. If I does, I will never be able to forgive myself._

_Until I return,  
__Your loving,  
__Christine _

She folded the note once, writing in delicate script to whom the letter was addressed. Clutching the note, she shut her ink bottle and made away.

Outside, a figure was leading two horses, both of chestnut manes, towards the front of the de Changy manor. In the morning mist, the horses snorted gently, pawing the ground in uneasiness. The driver coaxed them smoothly, patting their sides as they calmed down. He looked up expectantly at the house as Christine descended the stone steps and into the courtyard.

"Mademoiselle?"

"Thank you for waking this early, monsieur," Christine said with a smile, wrapping the riding cloak around her shoulders in the crisp morning air.

"No trouble at all, my dear, no trouble. I am always awake at this time. But I must ask you: why did you request my presence this morning?"

She hesitated at first. She began to stroke the mane of the nearest horse, searching their eyes thoughtfully. Turning to the man, she said, "I'm expected at the Opera this morning."

"For what purpose?" He then looked away, scrutinizing his filthy, mud-streaked shoes. "Forgive me, mademoiselle, it is not my place to impose."

"If we are to make this journey, I would ask that you call me Christine." Her face was kind as she once again began to stroke the mare.

"And I would that you call me Bailey," he said equally as kindly, the mousy-brown, thinning hair atop his head beginning to streak with crimson.

He helped her into the coach, then seated himself behind the horses on the driver's platform. "To the Opera, then, Christine?"

She looked into the horizon, shielding her eyes from the glaring blaze of the morning star that was languorously rising over the capital city of France. She squinted intolerably, sighing in accord. "_Oui, monsieur, à l'opéra._"

-'-,-'----

She nodded to Bailey as he lightly whipped the horses, their departing trots fading away into the morning hustle and bustle of the metropolis. Her hand was clutching her limp arm nervously, the hair on the back of her neck prickling uncomfortably. Her gaze trailed up the tall, immense building painstakingly slowly, giving no excuse to approach at any moment too soon.

_Go on, _a voice urged her tenderly, _there's nothing to be afraid of. What could you possibly risk by going inside?_

_My engagement, my life, my sanity…_her conscience quipped needlessly.

She sighed, tucking a strap curl behind her ear. She slowly approached the stairs ascending to the edifice when her eye caught something. She bent over, looking to her left and right, wondering if anyone was watching her as she kneeled down. There was an envelope on the stair, and she had almost stepped upon it. It was faint luck she had; if she hadn't seen its bright red lettering, it would have doubtlessly escaped her vision.

She stood up with the letter in hand, feeling an unnerving and slightly uneasy sense of foreboding that could not but fill her with dread. She broke the seal on the envelope, a large, grotesque mark of a skull, and gently removed the letter inside.

_I bid you good morning, mademoiselle. I hope your journey here was pleasant enough._

_I am under the impression that this is not your first visit to the Opera, in which I find my presumption is well-founded. I have made the arrangements for your lesson to be held in a slightly outcasted dressing room, which happens to be located near all of the other dressing rooms, and is the very last one at the end of the hallway._

_If you get lost, you may ask around to find your way. If anyone should ask you why you are looking for the room, tell them that you have business with an employee of the Opera, and have plans to meet them there._

The letter was unsigned. She flipped the page over, in which she found a short postscript.

_I look forward to seeing you soon._

She shivered involuntarily. Placing the letter inside the envelope, she hid it away in one of the pockets of her cloak, which she removed upon entering the building.

In comparison to her first visit to _l'Opera Garnier_, there were not so many people rushing about the place. It was certainly quieter, and the atmosphere was more of ease. She hurried on, turning several times and asking directions only once. She was more confident of her own ability, though she had never been to the dressing rooms before.

When she finally reached the hallway, she stopped short, grasping the wall in sudden panic. What was to be the outcome of this episode? Would he think her a naïve, silly little child with no experience, someone with no hope but big dreams? She removed her arm from the wall proudly, holding her head a little higher and blinking away any smarting of the eyes. She would do this.

It was silent. She stood in the threshold of the good-sized room, examining its insides. There was fold curtain to serve as a changing area, a place to make toilet, a large dresser, a good-sized wardrobe, a chaise, and a mirror. The furniture was coated with a considerable layer of dust, which speckled dully in the gas lamp light. She stepped over the door, looking at the mirror curiously. It was very large, spanning from the ceiling to the floor, and was by far the most impressive piece of furniture in the room. It had a gold-hilted frame, carved intricately with impressed flowers and swirls. The glass itself was shiny and smooth, almost portal-like. It had such a presence in the room that she couldn't help but stare into the glass, feeling suddenly apprehensive…

There was a sudden noise from outside the room. Shutting the door quickly, she pressed her ear against the wood, listening closely to the sound approaching voices.

"Please tell us, Meg, please say all! We are anxious to know!"

"I can most certainly see that." A very proud, child-like voice, she noted. Meg Giry. Christine smiled as she recognized the voice, the terror in her gut drifting away.

"This isn't far, Meg! You said you saw something, now tell us before we tell your mother you've been nosing about!" said another girlish voice, high and impetuous.

"You wouldn't dare, Brigitte. Maman would surely peck at you for telling such falsehoods," was the knowing, smart reply. There was a dramatic pause, in which Christine could surely see the theatrical look on Meg's face. "I saw the ghost!"

She removed her ear from the door, rolling her eyes. _The ghost indeed, _Christine thought. _It is this tutor who is a ghost…_

"_Mademoiselle_…"

She looked around, startled. "Who's there?" She inwardly flinched at her shrill-sounding fright.

"Are you not expecting someone?" She realized with dawning nervousness that it was he, the masked stranger with whom she had made this arrangement. She swallowed her pride, continuing to look around the room.

"Where are you?" she asked, her voice more even now.

"On the other side of the wall," was his crisp reply, unemotional and detached.

She could have laughed had she not bit her tongue back. Was she being played with? "Why are you on the other side of the wall?" she asked bluntly, feeling foolish for having, seemingly to an onlooker, a conversation with herself.

There was a distinguished pause, she noticed, in which she fancied he was thinking. Then-

"There is a piano located in the wall, mademoiselle, and the space in which the instrument is held cannot accommodate more than a single person. Please forgive me for that."

She nodded, though she had a vague feeling he could not see her. "Oh, I see," was her only reply.

"Because we had made our meeting impromptu, I had not the time to arrange for a place for us to have a lesson, so for next time I shall arrange to have a piano installed in the room."

She opened her mouth wordlessly, pondering over his words. Did he expect there to be more lessons? He answered her question, surprising her with his uncanny ability to presume.

"That is, mademoiselle, if you find my teaching is serviceable to you."

She blushed at his mind-reading ability, hoping against hope that he could not see the color rise on her cheeks. She looked over towards the mirror, watching the red spread over her paling face. "That's sounds reasonable," she answered.

"Good." A gentle chord was played, as if human fingers had not pressed upon porcelain keys, rather wind had swept them down gracefully. "We shall start with some scales, then."

Minutes flew by in which Christine stood in the middle of the room, her eyes focusing on the chaise, as if someone were sitting there, instructing her. The music seemed to flow all around her, first in her immediate presence, then inside her mind. There were times when her eyes would fold shut unconsciously, and she was only aware of the startlingly beautiful sound around her. He would coax her gently, but he could be firm as well, and she realized that there was possibly no instructor in the world who could construct music as he did, no one who was master over the simple, hand-crafted products of nature that formed song.

As the end of the hour came, he stopped playing and began to speak. "Today was a good start, my dear. Together we could reach great heights, if it so be your desire. I would ask you now if you wish to continue lessons, or if you would rather this meeting fade into memory." His voice was so magnificently powerful, so gloriously inhuman that her heart swelled to hear it. She could almost imagine that he wanted to continue giving her instruction, and she, entirely, wanted very much the same.

"I truly wish to continue with you-," She stopped shortly, looking uncertainly at the floor. "I just realized I don't know your name."

There was an uncomfortable pause in which silence settled like some unyielding barrier between them. She had a fleeting thought that he had left, and for a moment she was frightened. "Are you still here?" she asked worriedly.

"I am, mademoiselle. Erik. My name is Erik."

"Erik," she said quietly, smiling to herself. "Well then, Erik, you may call me Christine, if you are to be my tutor."

"Yes," he said softly, and with that softness came the most profound and utterly heart-wrenching noise that could emit from human lips. She could almost feel her heard soar, such was it a glorious sound. "Yes, Christine, I shall."

She smiled. Feeling entirely calm and at ease, Christine looked at the mirror, imagining that he was with her in the room, instead of outside it. "When should we have our next lesson, then, Erik?"

"Whenever you desire, Christine."

The thought of indulging Raoul in her secret agenda made way into her mind, and she thought better to wait another day. "Tomorrow, perhaps?"

He was quiet for a moment, and when he next spoke, she could hear the quiet smile in his voice. "As you wish, Christine."


	9. In My Dark My Heart Heard Music

Seasons greetings! So sorry about taking so long to update, I've been in kind of a funk so far as writing goes. But here is your next chapter, dutifully delivered! I hope you guys all have a very happy holiday, and a happy new year as well! I only wish I could update a Christmas chapter, alas, we're still in the late summer in this story. Oh well. Enjoy!

-'-,-'----

"_Ah, less--less bright  
The stars of night  
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!  
And never a flake  
That the vapor can make  
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,  
__Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl--  
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl."  
__Edgar Allen Poe, "**Eulalie"**_

It was around noontime when Bailey pulled back up to the Opera House. By that time, patrons were flying in, workers were flying out, and people on their lunch breaks were swarming into little cafes along the strip. He stopped the coach right outside the front gates, stepping down from his seat and leaning against the coach absentmindedly. He removed his navy-blue driver's cap, sweeping a knarled hand through his thinning hair. His watery blue eyes scanned the top of building, leaning his head far back to sweep over the golden statue of Apollo on the roof. The sun was just overhead, to which he quickly replaced his cap to prevent further sunburn on the reddening crown of his head.

It was a few minutes later when the lady in his care came down the steps, her pace deliberate and gentle. He could tell from her eyes that there had been a change in her from his morning, to which he did not mention. Her wide, chocolate eyes were sweet with a quiet ecstasy, to which she gladly hid and kept to herself. She looked radiantly revived, as if her adventure had given her a strength that she had lacked from before. Steadily, Bailey took her hand in his, helping her into the coach. She said not a word, but nodded to him assuringly and passed him a silent, warm smile.

The ride back to the de Changy estate was quiet, eventless. Few times he would glance behind him through the window and into the coach, just to make sure she was still inside. Such a change had there been in her attitude from when he first met her! When he first laid eyes on the dear, grieving child, she was withdrawn, sad, and unmoving. Now, here was a young lady with a purpose, a mannered, sweet-tempered young adult with the most loving heart the man had seen in someone her age. By this time, as he had learned from working from many noblemen, young women had already entered submission, had left behind their dreams and taken on a veil of cold emotional detachment. But here was a true exception: such was someone so ignorant of caste difference that he could not but help wonder. Was such a progressive woman fit to become the sister-in-law of _Comte Philippe de Changy_?

He could not but let his thoughts wonder, as the bright azure sky overhead began to meet the manor house on the lavish piece of land, and the horses trot faded into a stop. He vaguely wondered if he could make himself a hot cup of tea before he continued to work for the afternoon…

His thoughts were abruptly halted when he felt two rough hands grab the coattails of his dusty brown jacket, throwing him down from his seat and draging him down on the stony driveway roughly. He could distinguish the disembodied head of one Vicomte de Changy, his violent yet unthreatening hands pressed against the man's chest. His legs became wobbly and unlocked, causing him to fight to stand. He began to wheeze, his hacking coughs spilling through his esophagus painfully.

"Where did you take her?" Raoul shouted angrily, his hands persistently throwing Bailey back against the coach.

"Please, monsieur-," Bailey tried to explain, but only succeeding in coughing more fitfully.

"Give me an answer! Why did you take her? What was your incentive? Kidnapping the fiancé of a de Changy, carrying her away into the unknown! Speak now while you can!"

"Raoul, stop it!" Christine ran from the other side of the coach, her riding cloak flying behind her in her distress. "You're suffocating him!"

"Christine!" Shoving the man from himself, Raoul wrapped his arms around Christine. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"Raoul, calm down, everything's fine." She pulled away from his embrace after a moment, placing an arm on Bailey's shoulder and checking him over, her hands shaking. "Are you alright, monsieur?"

He nodded, his eyes watering as his coughs came to an eventual cease. "I'll be alright, Madame," he gasped in a scratchy voice.

Christine turned back to Raoul, her eyes bright with indignation. "What is the meaning of this, Raoul? Harming your own help? He only did what I asked him to do, that's all!"

Raoul stared unblinkingly at Bailey, his eyes growing softer. "I'm sorry, Bailey. Please, take the rest of the day off. More so, the week. I feel obligated to make it up to you." He held out his hands in an apologetic gesture, looking graciously ashamed.

"Thank you, Monsieur Vicomte." Bailey walked away, rearing the horses towards the stable on the other side of the estate. Christine continued to gaze sharply at Raoul, her lips pursed.

"Raoul, what is the meaning of this? You look like death," she stated plainly, throwing caution of her words to the wind.

Indeed, his face was wan with worry, his eyes ever so slightly bloodshot and his hand shaking. "Christine, when I read your note this morning, I panicked. I thought you might have been kidnapped, or some other horrible thing might have happened to you…" He took her hands in his, holding onto them tightly. "Should anything ever have happened to you, I don't know what I would do."

"You needn't worry so much, Raoul." She gave him a vague half-smile, a gentle tilting of the corner of her mouth. She felt very much like a mother consoling a young child who had just lost their favorite toy, or a boy who had fallen in the mud.

It was a certain sweetness which kept her in his grasp, until he slowly pulled away, his face drawn. "Where did you go, Christine? Why were you gone so early this morning?"

-'-,-'----

"You went where?"

His eyes were laced with confusion, the gentle orbs glazed with a humorless stare. They were sitting in the drawing room, her hands still entwined with his, his face serious and tiled to the left. "Why would you go there so early, and without me to escort you?"

She removed her hands from his lap, looking away regretfully. "I didn't want to tell you last night, Raoul. I was afraid….afraid of….oh, I don't know what." Her eyes began to tear. She put a hand to her face, feeling the smooth skin grow hot.

"Please, Christine, whatever you tell me can't be as bad as what you suggest." He took her hand in his again, tilting her face as to meet her eyes. His smile was gentle, disarming. "It's alright, Christine. Only tell me what you can."

As she related her tale, his expression changed from pleasant to that of concern. She later realized that she should not have told him, that it might have been better to save him from distress, or disgrace, by not letting him know, or if she had told him sooner. It was too late, either way.

"Christine, why would you need a tutor? I mean, I don't understand why…"

"I wasn't thinking clearly at the time, Raoul. I haven't been truly honest with you from the beginning. The whole concept of marrying above my status, Raoul…it scares me. I don't know if I am ready." She stopped right where she was, afraid that if she said anymore, she would let loose her feelings and thoughts pertaining to Lady Sorrel. How Raoul's former courtship of her made her just a little more than uneasy, how her ethereal beauty was unnerving, frightful almost…

She took a shaky breath, forcing herself not to cry. "I just thought that maybe…maybe if I took a few lessons from a voice instructor, I would know that this is who I am supposed to be. That my other life…the one I always thought I would lead…wasn't in my future. That all along, this was who I was supposed to become. Your wife." Against her will, a single, crystalline tear fell down her cheek.

He grazed her tear-soaked cheek with a chaste kiss, claiming the tear for himself. "If that's how you feel, Christine, that's all you need to have said. If you want someone to tutor you, I shall support you any way I can. I only want you to be happy, and if you need to find out for yourself if being with me will make you happiest," here he choked slightly on his words, "than I will not stand in your way of self-realization." Again, he kissed her on her cheek, pulling her up with him as he stood. "Now come, we'll talk about your lesson over lunch."

-'-,-'----

_**The next night, at the Opera**_

The performance tonight would be at eight, presently. He had not arranged for there to be any discrepancy of any kind. Simply, he wanted to watch the opera, in his normal box, with his normal orders. A footstool, a program. Nothing especially different. His box-keeper would see to it that his desires were met.

However, he had a slight foreboding that she would be there tonight. He fervently hoped to see her, even if he _had_ seen her earlier that day.

They had only been meeting for two days. Two unspeakable, uncompromising, incomparable days. And she still had not suspected him of leading her astray. Not that he was, to be honest. In lamest terms, he was not leading her astray at all. He taught her music, how to use her instrument correctly, how to stand properly, move her lips, her breathing, everything. There was no direct way in which he was deceiving her.

And yet he was.

He had led her to believe that he worked at the Opera as some kind of maestro. Or…at least that's what he _thought_ she concluded. She really had no inkling that he did not work at the Opera at all. Well, at least in the conventional way of employment.

The work of the Opera Ghost was really not a profession. Yet it was not to be taken lightly, either.

Indeed, where would this Opera House be without him? Certainly not standing, he reflected cynically. The very presence of the Opera was his doing, even if he had not sponsored its construction. He knew every twisting turn, every darkened pathway, every sacred and hidden room that made up the Opera Garnier. It was **His** home, **His** palace, **His** kingdom.

And she had no idea.

Well, it would best to would remain like that.

Today's lesson differed very little from that of yesterday. He still played from behind his special mirror, the one that he had constructed for this very purpose. He could see through quite perfectly, while the person looking into the mirror could see nothing at all. Nothing beside themselves, that is. It was quite the paradoxical complex. She saw only what she wished to see, whilst the same could be said for himself.

She entered the room, the same as she had the previous day, in all her loveliness. Why did that torment him so, when he knew it was supposed to be a source of delight? Her attire was that of spoiled elegance, and yet her soul held only modesty. He could see past that façade of self-indulgence; it was only an image, nothing else. She was entirely selfless, with her innocence and naivety. In essence, she was perfect.

No, he shouldn't be having these thoughts. It was impossible to have these thoughts. Well, not impossible. More like _improbable_. He was indeed a man, was he not? Even if he had been degraded to living like a nocturnal beast, he was still a living, breathing human being, with human emotions, feelings, **needs**…

The very thought of her made him feel absurdly uncomfortable. But why? In all his years of isolation, it was true that he did long for something, anything, so give him comfort, as he had for all his life. But for the first time, he desired _someone_ to give him that relief. And if he was to be relieved at all, he most wanted it from someone who shared with him the one passion that was exempt from any other.

Any other beside love, that is.

_Music..._

He watched the company prepare for the production, every little ballerina scrambling about, every member of the orchestra getting collected. Even the men who worked the flies. Those insolent fools,such asJoseph Buquet, for example,would do well to see that nothing went wrong tonight. Nothing.

For the first time in a long time, he wanted someone to be impressed by the Opera tonight, even if he wasn't most of the time. Tonight, however, **everything** mattered.

-'-,-'----

Please, please, please review! I promise I'll update soon as I can! Happy Holidays!


	10. Sharing In My Triumph

A/N: I've decided to update a little sooner than I expected, as I felt badly about not updating for so long. Also, I would like to clear up a few things regarding this story. I PROMISE you that there is a definite plot coming into play, and that it involves a scandal, secrets, lies and betrayal. I promise you, the good stuff is coming soon. Also, for those Erik/Christine lovers out there, _do not get bored. _I promise you, a lot of E/C action will be taking place. Particularly in the next chapter. Mostly it's of their relationship. So, if you can stand to put up with some Raoul/Christine action, I promise that you will be rewarded. Enough chat, here's Chapter 10.

-'-,-'----

_"That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--  
As such it well may pass--  
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame  
In the breast of him, alas!"_  
_**Edgar Allen Poe, "Song"**_

"What do you mean _you sold our box_? It is the box we have been entitled to ever since we've become patrons of the Opera!" Philippe was in a raging fury, his mustache bristling in agitation and his cheeks glowing as if blistered by a hellish flame. He was standing with both his hands upon the arms of the chair in the managers' office, clutching at them desperately with whitening hands.

"Monsieur Comte, please try to understand. We were sold out tonight! _Le Prophete_ has not had such an admirable audience in some time, and we found it the perfect opportunity. We beseech your forgiveness." Monsieur Poligny was standing with his hands in front of him, twiddling his thumbs absentmindedly, whilst Monsieur Debienne was sitting in the chair behind the desk, having looked particularly uncomfortably during the interview. The silence was thick with tension, the only noise being the far-off sounds of the orchestra starting up and the constant chattering of the backstage crew fretting. After a few minutes' awkwardness, Raoul forced himself to speak, looking between the two managers painstakingly.

"Certainly there must be another box available?"

"There is no other box to speak of! Not a one! Our last boxes to sell were yours and Box five, and since you had not initially planned on attending tonight-.."

"Box five?" Raoul broke in. "Who bought box five tonight, gentlemen?"

Both exchanged excruciating glances, speaking at the same time in confused, babbling chatter.

"…do not know his name…"

"…quite out of our hands…"

" – really cannot mention anything.."

"…embarrassing…"

"Enough!" Philippe barked, pressing his fingers to his temples, his face screwed up in an anger that looked as if it were about to boil over. Keeping his voice as level as he could, he spoke with such a determined calm that both managers shifted in their respective positions. "If you do not know to whom you have sold the box, let us occupy it tonight, and simply exchange that box for another night's performance."

Again, both mangers looked between themselves, wringing their hands anxiously. Finally, Poligny relented, shaking his head as if trying to fight his own words as they tumbled from his mouth. "Very well, Monsieur Comte. The box is yours for tonight. However, should anything…_peculiar_ happen tonight, do not say that we did not warn you!"

"Warn us of what, messieurs?" Raoul asked frankly, his eyebrows knitting together over questioning eyes.

"Quickly, now, the performance is going to start in fifteen minutes' time! You want to get to your seats quickly."

-'-,-'----

The lights were dimming inside the theatre, the glow of the stage becoming brighter and more cheerful than the eerie and darkened shadows of the box. Christine's hand was entwined with Raoul's, resting gently on her peach satin dress. Philippe was sitting on Raoul's other side, his expression of silent triumph and arrogance. Christine leaned into Raoul's ear, whispering softly, "What happened inside the managers' office earlier?"

Raoul smiled secretly, leaning towards her with half-closed eyes. "Philippe rebuked the managers for selling our box, and it was quite the heated confrontation."

"So why are we occupying another's box, then?"

"Philippe said," Raoul whispered back, "that in all his time at the Opera, box five had never been sold. He never knew why. All he mentioned is that he has never seen anyone ever leaving this box, or coming into it."

Christine frowned thoughtfully. Why was there a mysterious person buying this box at every performance, and then never occupying it? There was something very strange in that…

Forgetting her thoughts, Christine turned her attention to the stage as the overture began, its melody wafting through the air thickly like sweetened honey dripping over.

The stage was set as a country pasture, with farmers in the fields and maidens milking cattle with rosy cheeks amidst blushing suitors. The chorus sang cheerfully, their merry voices rising together in the simplistic rustic scenery, their lives unadorned, yet blissful. The story took take place in the Low lands, reminding Christine longingly of the simple, unadorned life she once shared with her father. She remembered chasing him across merry hillsides, laughing as numerous wildflowers tickled her nose and cheeks…

When the second act ended, Christine's insides froze with fright. There was a noise from somewhere behind her, and she could of sworn it said her name. A low, hypnotic whisper of breath, hardly a sound at all. Even in its infinite softness, it sounded agonizingly familiar…

Turning around in her seat, she glanced into the shadows, convinced she had heard a human voice that belonged to neither Raoul nor Philippe. Watching Christine's actions curiously, Raoul glanced behind him as well.

"Christine, is something wrong?"

Giving the shadows one last fleeting glance, she turned around in her seat. "No…I must have been imagining things."

-'-,-'----

His temper could only be matched with his ironic sense of humor when he approached box five.

_His_ Box.

So, the managers had given over his box to another patron, had they? Well, they would do well to be more vigilant in the future. They were indeed fortunate that the very reason he was not about to frighten the group of patrons was because a certain young lady was among them.

A lady with her hand in another man's arm.

His momentary confusion was met with an absurd burst of some foreign emotion. What was it? He attempted to steady his hand by placing it inside his cloak, reaching into his pocket for…no, certainly not for that. What was his body doing, exactly?

Hiding in his usual concealment before he was discovered, he silently cursed himself for his insolence. How could he forget so easily that she was engaged?

To a handsome, rich patron of _his_ Opera House, who had the audacity to sit in _his_ seat, holding _his_ pupil's hand loftily.

As outraged as he was, he couldn't help but look at the girl from behind. He could tell from the way she sat in her velvet, plush seat that she was transfixed by the performance. He was filled with a warmth, something that ached even as it relieved his soul momentarily of its usually wintry feeling. Even if the de Changy boy _was_ in his seat, at least Christine was having an enjoyable evening. His sacrifice would not be in vain.

When he heard the familiar line, "_Prenez ma vie!_", he could not help but mouth the words noiselessly. As the second act came to a close, as he was sure it was ending, he could not but call out to her. With the utmost discretion, he whispered her name tenderly, throwing his voice so that it was directly behind her, and that only she could hear it. She turned around frantically, and he could tell that he had obviously startled her. Had her eyes been able to see into the darkness, she would have looked right at him, and as she did so he felt an involuntary wave of longing, that she might look at him in something other than fear.

She turned around again, her deep mahogany curls swinging over her shoulder delicately. The boy patted her hand, affirming her belief that she was hearing things.

Even if he could not name the emotion he felt when the Vicomte clutched her hand, at least he could label the passion he felt when the boy said that she was simply hearing 'things'.

Loathing.

-'-,-'----

Christine's appreciation after the final curtain largely surpassed that of both Raoul and Philippe that the former could not help but laugh. "Dearest Christine, if I am not to be misled, I would have to assume that you are trying to outdo our applause."

For some time Christine's sparkling eyes never left the stage, but when realization struck her that Raoul was speaking to her, she shook herself from her momentary reverie. "I'm sorry, Raoul, did you say something?"

He chucked good-naturedly, bringing her hand to his lips to place a butterfly kiss on the smooth, alabaster skin. "My apologies, Christine. I had quite forgotten the dream-like glow your eyes once had after the telling of a particularly good story, or after another adventure in the attic."

"I thought I had forgotten it as well, to be truthful," she indulged, her bright eyes dulling ever so slightly. With renewed vigor, Christine grasped his hand enthusiastically. "Raoul, do you remember the stories father told of the Angel of Music?"

He smirked self-confidently, entwining her arm into the crook of his own. "How could I forget, Little Lotte? The Angel of Music was always your favorite story."

"Well, Raoul, I had not thought of the Angel for a long while now. And do you know why? It is because I had given up hope in Him! I had thought that after my father died, there was no reason to believe in the Angel if father was not to share Him with me. But now I believe that the Angel _is_ watching over me. That because music reentered my life, he is now with me."

"He always has been, Christine. Now come, we must congratulate Monsieur Reyer, or I am sure Philippe will have my head for such poor manners."

-'-,-'----

After Christine and Raoul left the box, Erik felt comfortable enough to slink out of the shadows. So, Christine had an Angel of Music? This would do well to leave him with a great advantage over the de Changy boy...

-'-,-'----

Christine had been standing next to Raoul when her shoulder was burdened with a cold, hard object. Turning around slowly, Christine was met with a pair of stony eyes flecked with patches of brilliant blue. The eyes were set in a hard face, accentuated with a thin nose and thin, pursed lips. The face was that of a woman, with long, dark grey hair that was plaited into a long, thick braid that ran down her back. She was wearing a black satin dress, probably of her own make. She wore nothing else, but held a walking stick proudly, leaning onto it with a questioning glitter in her eyes.

"Are you Christine Daae?"

"Yes, Madame."

The woman looked her up and down, as if to prove the fact for herself and, seeming to be satisfied, stood a little straighter in her posture. It gave her a very sophisticated air, which only heightened her aura of pride. "Christine Daae, my name is Mme. Giry. I was a friend of your father's before he died." She held back nothing in her manner of speech, speaking bluntly and with purpose.

"My…my father?" Christine asked, feeling suddenly very small.

"Yes, my dear. I remember you when you were a small child…no younger than seven or eight. You've grown into a young lady quite nicely, I must say."

She could not but help blushing modestly. "Thank you, Madame."

Mme. Giry nodded curtly. "It was one of your father's dearest wishes that you become a great vocalist, and he wished to see that happen here. I was under the impression that after his death you were to join the chorus, but I see you had other plans…" She glanced over Christine's shoulder at Raoul's turned back, his hand on another man's shoulder as they conversed animatedly.

Christine bit her lip, afraid to answer. "That was originally what I intended to do, Madame. After my father's….death…..I was confused. I didn't want to be alone at the time. I wanted companionship more than anything else."

Madame Giry looked down at Christine's hand, noting the band of gold around her finger. "I see," she said quietly. "Nevertheless, I was obliged to your father to watch over you, Christine. He loved you more than anything on this earth, and in his last testament he asked me to watch over you, as well as Madame Valerius."

Christine nodded, looking purely ashamed at her defiance of her father's wishes. Again, that smoldering, hot feeling of disgrace pressed against her heart, and she wished that she might do anything to move away from Mme. Giry's scrutinizing eyes…

She was saved from that stare when a petite blond-headed girl came rushing up to the woman in front of her, pink skirts flailing about as her small, pink feet pranced before them. "Maman! Maman! the girls have run off again, and they have left me behind!"

"Maman?" Christine eyes widened in shock as she realized where she had seen that haughty stance before. _Meg Giry…Madame Giry was her mother! _The girl paid Christine no heed.

"Foolish girls, if I have told them once I have told them a thousand times that there is no Opera Ghost!"

"But Maman, that is not what you said befo-…"

"Hush," Madame Giry shot at her, causing the girl to slink away with one burning glare.

"My daughter, Meg Giry, of the ballet corps."

"We've met before, Madame."

"Then you will know what a flippant, silly child she is." Yet in her eyes was a look so close to loving tenderness that Christine thought she had imagined it. "Excuse me, Christine, but I must tend to the ballerinas. I am, after all, their mistress, as much as it dishonors me."

Walking away as gracefully as a dancer herself, Christine imagined a younger Madame Giry, with dark hair and bright, determined eyes, her form as lithe as a cat. Age certainly did change people…

She was not to be let off for the night, however, as another haughty figure approached her from the side.

-'-,-'----

I do hope your having patience with me. But I promise you, I shall get to work on that next chapter as quickly as possible. I already have! Please review, it really means a lot when I see you are enjoying my work! But even critiqing it is bareable. Onwards!


	11. Hide Your Face

A/N: I don't really have much to say, except that I'm sorry for the late update. I don't particularly like this chapter, so if you don't, feel free to critique and post your opinions on how I can improve my writing. Thanks!

-'-,-'----

"_Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,  
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.  
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;  
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--  
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;--  
'Tis the wind and nothing more."  
__Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven"_

-'-,-'----

_Lady Sorrel_.

She was positively floating towards her, dismissing a rather good-looking, dignified gentleman, possibly a former suitor following her closely from behind, as she made her way over to Christine with an air of sweeping disregard. She grabbed Christine's wrist, her smile rather forced and overly sweet, her nails digging into Christine's wrist like the talons of a bird. "Christine, dear, I was not expecting to see you here!"

Christine could not bring herself to answer, only smiling back half-heartedly, wishing the ground would swallow her whole in its caressing depths. She glanced over at the man who stood awkwardly a few feet away, glaring at the back of Sorrel de Douay's ginger head with a passionate aggravation.

"I could not have begun to imagine that you would be here tonight! But I must be lucky, mustn't I? I have just been _dying_ to know something, my dear. To clear up a rather remarkable rumor I've heard as of late." Her dark eyelashes were flashing dangerously, so fast that it made Christine dizzy. She sensed something was wrong with her manner, her stomach reeling at the falseness of her voice. It was amazing how Sorrel's countenance could change from that of sisterly friendship to something entirely different. Something in her sharp, gray eyes caught Christine as accusing, it be jealous?

"What rumor have you heard?" Christine answered weakly, chiding her own lack of bravery under the woman's intense glare.

Sorrel smirked, releasing Christine's wrist gently as her manner once again changed. "It's not really a rumor, as such. Just something I heard that I discharged right away. It's too extraordinary a notion to believe. Imagine, a soon-to-be Vicomtess, having a voice instructor? It's too fantastic!"

Christine lifted her eyes to the mezzanine, watching as the performers ran by indolently, their gazes far more lighthearted than she thought appropriate for the situation. Her face growing flush, she felt determined not to look intimidated. Meeting eyes once again, she put on her bravest face and surest tone. "Why is that such an incredible concept?"

Taken aback, Sorrel gaped at her for only a moment, before laughing good-naturedly. "Sweet, sweet Christine! I had no idea that it was true. I only mused that a woman who was about to marry into nobility might consider leaving behind…._otherworldly_ fixations."

Christine shook her head in misunderstanding. What was so _otherworldly_ about singing? True, the life of a vocalist was, at times, not considered a respectable occupation, but it was also a childhood fantasy. Her father's dream for her. It was not something that was easily gotten over, much less forgotten. Was this why Sorrel was jealous, or was it for some other mysterious reason?

"Sorrel, I don't think you understand. I'm not….what I mean to say is, I'm not _fixated_ on anything. Raoul approves, and if he's fine with it, then that's all that matters."

Sorrel looked unmoved. "Oh dear, I only want what's best for you. I worry about you at times, Christine. I only hope that Raoul knows what he's saying when he approves of you doing this. He has, as I'm sure you know, somewhat of a pride for the de Changy name. I would warn you." With a final look in her eye that Christine could only register as a confidence between the two of them, she walked away, the suitor once again trailing behind her.

-'-,-'----

He watched from above as Christine moved around backstage, leaving behind the insufferable Vicomte. When Madame Giry appeared beside the girl, introducing herself, he found himself dumbfounded. Madame _knew_ Christine? He would have liked to think that she'd display some sort of evidence as to that before now. It did not matter, at any rate. What only mattered, at the moment, was the other woman who was approaching Christine.

He had seen this particular woman before, her flamboyancy and grandeur often setting things asunder. She would often be commanding others about, showing off in front of older men, tossing her long, scarlet hair off her shoulder and giggling in the most artificial way. She was often known to be coy, an act that was so deceitful that she often got away with horrible intrigues and expedient acts. She was entirely self-serving, as he had perceived, and he had only the highest degree of distrust for a woman who was so snake-like her manner.

It was with this former awareness that he narrowed his eyes at her haughty approach. What was this woman up to now?

His heart ached for Christine as she had to put up with the unbearable, treacherous imp. How he wished to sweep down there at this very moment and snatch Christine away from the woman's clutches, do anything and everything in his power to save her from that torment. The way Christine's small face plucked with confusion was enough to make him give himself away. _It wouldn't be worth it, _he reaffirmed himself. _She can take care of herself. _

When Sorrel called music otherworldly, it took all his self-control not to hiss too loudly. _Otherworldly? Madame, you might do well to mind your tongue. It may lash out too far and hook a noose around it. Only the greatest discretion may save you in the future…_

-'-,-'----

The room was uncomfortably quiet, the long sounds being the faraway notes of the orchestra rehearsing. Christine felt sure that she could hear the footsteps of the various members of the company treading on the floor above them, but not outside the door to the room. Never outside the door, except for one or two odd occurrences that happened to be extremely curious. Nevertheless, she didn't say a word, waiting for Erik to say something before she would, hoping he would not be too upset with her for missing her last cue to begin singing.

"You are distracted, Christine."

She looked up sharply, feeling her cheeks beginning to burn with shame. "Forgive me, Erik. I can't seem to concentrate."

"Is there perhaps a reason for it? Was the performance last night not to your liking?"

Christine wrinkled her brow, a question lining her forehead. "How did you know I was at _'Le Prophete'_ last night?"

He hesitated so slightly that she was sure she had imagined it. He sounded as if he were on the ends of his patience, maddening him to break down his stony exterior. "I am hoping that you are beginning to trust me, Christine. I can not fully teach the art of which you study if you can not trust in me. To hold pretensions as inconsequential as suspicion will not get you far in your lessons." His voice was cold and apathetic, so unfeeling that it couldn't have been the same person minutes before.

"I didn't mean to insult you, Erik. I trust in you fully," she said softly, her voice cracking with the emotion so felt slipping through.

His voice was as even as it had been moments before, the voice drifting through the walls like an icy cold draft of the fast-approaching autumn. "In order to fulfill your hopes of becoming a great vocalist, Christine, you must have confidence in your tutor. But you must also have confidence in yourself." She sat down on the divan beside the mirror, staring at her own reflection in morose. "Now Christine," he said quietly, "I want you to sing the beginning bars of the female lead's part from '_Le Prophete'. _The role of Berthe. You will find the score on the dresser."

She went over to the dresser, picking up the packet of song sheets with a leather-bound exterior, titled in grandiose lettering. She leafed through the pages, finding the one to which her maestro was referring. Steadily and with exact ease, the chords began to waft through the walls as always, the music flooding the small room with unadorned precision. "I shall play the first bars through twice, then you shall begin."

She did as he instructed, never once slacking in her attempt to do her best. The feeling of eyes burning into her skull never left her once, and she imagined him watching her from somewhere, even though she knew it couldn't be true. The thought of him being outside of the room, yet teaching her everyday, was always a troubling thought, one she often pushed to the back of her mind, but today she could not let go of. She would have to ask him.

As the harmony died away, silence reigned for a few moments. Then, "Erik, may I ask you a question?"

Stiffly, he replied. "What is your question?" he asked civilly.

She swallowed thickly, throwing out her question before her courage failed her. "Why do you teach me from outside these walls? You sit behind them because you play the piano, I understand that, but why?"

He didn't retort for a long time. She was afraid he had left again, or had simply refused to speak to her, now that she had finally laid out the question on the table. Just as she was about to call his name, his voice, hollow and desolate, returned to her. "I shall not deceive you, Christine, as you have so harmlessly asked for an answer. It is because I was afraid that you would feel a heightened sense of distraction if I were in the room with you."

She was confused. "I don't understand-," she began.

He cut her off unceremoniously. "My mask, Christine. I knew that you would feel curious as to why I wear my mask, and that you would be led astray during our lessons." He stopped, his voice becoming more sorrowful as he spoke. "You have asked my reason, Christine, and that is it. Do you not agree that it would be so if I were to instruct you whilst in your dressing room?"

"Erik, I-,"

"_Do not play coy with me_, Christine. I know you better than you let on. Do you now wish to know _why_ I wear my mask? Do you wish for me to come out so that you may remove it? What do you desire, so that I may fulfill it?" His voice, so ordinarily beautiful and unearthly, sounded like that of a demon, cruel and harsh, his anger bridging on hysteria. She felt tears stem down her cheeks in smooth rivers, two single beads following together.

"Erik, please, that's not what I wish at all!"

She could hear heavy breathing from wherever he was, coming to a slowing pace as he slowly calmed down. The angelic voice was once again even, yet so insensitive that it tormented her heart mercilessly. "I assume that you understand the plot of _'Le Prophete'_, Christine, am I not correct?"

She simply nodded, wiping her tears with a handkerchief she found on the divan.

"Good. Then let us continue."

-'-,-'----

This chapter was very difficult to write, so don't hate me if you didn't like it! I'm trying to work on it, so please don't be frustrated with me. Next chapter shall be oodles better, I promise!


	12. What Endless Longings

I want to start off by saying that I'm sorry I took so long to update. Again. I cannot promise to be on time every time, it's far too difficult, especially with the unexpectedness of life. So, to be sure, I want you to know that I rarely start something I don't finish. Actually, I never do. So, please read ahead and tell me what you think.

-'-,-'----

"**_But my heart is brighter,  
_**_**Than all of the many  
**__**Stars in the sky  
**__**For it sparkles with Annie-  
**__**It glows with the light  
**__**Of the love of my Annie-  
**__**With the thought of the light  
**__**Of the eyes of my Annie."  
**_"_For Annie"_Edgar Allen Poe

-'-,-'----

The air was thick with hot, sultry humidity. Rustling whispers from the pine trees blew like sparks from a quieting blaze. Overhead, night creatures chirped shiftily, the final rays of the sunset having died hours ago, the only light being the iridescent, milky outline of the crescent moon, throwing long shadows over the clay path. Owls hooted softly, landing gently on the branches as tall as three men on top of one another, disregarding the passengers as they moved along.

A carriage was the lone figure amidst the forest terrain, rattling incessantly as the wheels pounded together like bricks over the rocky road. The horses snorted in indecision, their breath coming in fast intakes as they trotted carefully beneath the nighttime sky. Their beady eyes shifted back and forth, wondering why their masters had taken them so far into the wood, and at such an unseemly hour. Still, their hooves patted with an ever-soft c_lip-clop_, echoing throughout the silent wood like hooded specters.

The movement of the carriage came to a sluggish stop, the constant trembling of the coach becoming still once more. A tall, large figure stepped out of the carriage, black, leather boats hitting the dirt with a _thud_. Large, leather-bound hands grasped the sides of the stage, the knuckles beneath the material taut against the fabric. The person grunted, making a low, growling sound in the back of his throat, which was hidden, along with most of his skin, under layers of fine cloth. His face was mostly shadowed, but what could be seen were heavily-lidded, brown -almost black- eyes, a cynical, twisted mouth, and a head of straight, ebony hair that came to rest on his broad, large shoulders. He held a cigar lightly in his fingers, then flung it away with a flick of his wrist.

"Would you care to explain your reason for stopping our journey, Claude?" His voice was as smooth as silk, a voice unexpected of such an imposing body.

"The Lady requested to meet here, m'lord," was the hoarse, monotonous reply of the driver.

The man stroked his chin in thought, gazing into the distance behind them. "She wrote that in the note, did she?"

"Of course, m'lord, of course."

The man regarded the driver was a cool, apathetic stare. "Did you read the note yourself?"

The driver simply shook his head.

He looked at him a fraction of a second longer, then looked away with a private half-smile, a simple lifting of one side of his mouth, revealing white teeth that stood out in contrast against the darkness of his face. "Yes, I would imagine that you could not read, Claude. It is still not a common quality in this country." He looked from the road to the golden pocket watch he kept at his side, beginning to be impatient. "If she is not here in ten minutes' time, I shall arrange for a new driver, is that understood?"

A quickening of hooves alerted the two men that a coach was promptly approaching, breaking up the ghostly silence of the night. As the carriage came to a halt, a woman, assisted by her driver, stepped out of the coach, her presence bringing the most impenetrable silence there had yet to be. She approached them gracefully, walking through a thin, impending cloud of heat that began to rise.

"Madame." The man made a deep bow, touching her hand to his forehead before laying a gentlemanly kiss upon the pristine skin.

She made no reply, simply raised his chin so that he was on her eye level, leaving him slightly hunched over. "I see you received my message, monsieur."

He didn't dare move, only looked straight into her piercing gaze. "I had heard that required my services. I am obliged to answer any demand you may have, your ladyship."

She smiled, though the smile did not touch her eyes. Her eyelids closed half-way, giving her the most wanton look he had ever seen, her lips gleaming in the moonlight. "Good," she said softly, passing her gloved hand over his cheekbone seductively.

-'-,-'----

He looked up at the clock on the wall, absentmindedly strumming his fingers on Philippe's desk. The day was a cloudy one, the sun hiding meekly behind fuzzy, monochrome clouds. The window was slightly open, the window hangings still as the damp summer heat spilled in. Though it was approaching noontime, it looked very much like early evening, despite the cool, blue afternoon sky. He had been sitting in the office for some time, lifting his eyes to the walls, their blank, staring portraits gazing out of lifeless eyes on the bland painted walls. The stillness of the air was only broken with the steady hammer of the great oak Grandfather clock, ticking off the seconds as he count them in his head.

_One, two, plus one, plus another one…_

He did not know why he was just sitting there when he could have been outside, riding any one of the several stallions they owned, or with his brother, meeting with God knows who to discuss God knows what. More recently, he had found that business was becoming ever more tedious, and that he would rather spend his precious, limited time with Christine before they were married in simple intimacy. It was for this reason that he nodded off Philippe's frustrations, building slowly yet not breaking over. He could tell that the oncoming marriage was beginning to wear at him. Only a few months away, and already he was starting to lose his nerve. Raoul couldn't help but smile; it was almost as if Philippe fancied _himself_ getting married, even if he had been close several times. He still wondered, to this day, why he had never solidified a betrothal for himself. He could tell that Raoul's choice in a bride must have deeply embittered Philippe. For as much as he loved and respected his elder sibling, Raoul could not protest against the constant yearning his heart felt every time Christine blessed him with her presence. It was a miracle every time she walked into the room, each time she bestowed upon him a sincere, guiding smile. It was Christine that he was thankful for everyday.

He glanced again at the clock, sighing in lethargy. He couldn't remember a time when he had been so restless, so completely inadequate in his activity that he would do nothing to save himself from the despair. It was almost a calm that overtook him, yet he couldn't quite say that it was. _Waiting must by the most tiresome leisure, _he thought drearily. _Another minute and I'm sure to lose my mind. _

Another ten minutes went by, however, and still he sat, unmoving. It was only when he heard the unmistakable shutting of the front door did he spring into action, taking to the hallway as if something were amiss. Yet, nothing could be, for Christine was home.

Walking towards her, he could tell that her daily lesson must have been a pleasant one, for he could see the distinctive brightness in her almond-shaped eyes that he had come to adore. It was as if an inner light shone from inside her, one that could easily be turned on and off, and when it was alighted, it was the most beautiful sight in the world.

"A pleasant morning, _mon chéri?" _

The bright eyes turned towards him. "You may assume that," she said with a smile.

He returned her smile, taking her hands in his and holding them in front of them. "My, Christine, I must say that I am delighted that you are taking these lessons. I've never seen you more glowing!"

She blushed modestly, a further reddening of her cheeks that, if possible, heightened her beauty. He watched carefully as her full lips pursed, seeking to want to say something, her eyes averting to the floor. we perhaps speak in private?"

He glanced around the two of them, noting that none of the servants were around. "We…are in private, my love."

She shook her head, the glossy curls that were tied in a loose ribbon flailing about her face. "Secretly…perhaps outside?"

He clapped his hands together. "Of course. I know what would be perfect! I will have Odette prepare a picnic and blanket for us, and we shall take them to the little orchard. Shall we?"

She nodded once, twice.

Once their lunch had been prepared, Raoul helped Christine onto one of the gentler mares, a beauty with a slick, chestnut mane, and then lifted himself onto one of his favorites, a mahogany-coated creature. He nodded to Bailey, who had gotten the horses prepared, then started off, heading towards the orchard.

It had been a special place for Christine and Raoul. It was the very place that Raoul had admitted his lasting and eternal love for Christine, where he had confessed to have loved her since they were children. He had promised, under the great, hooded trees, to love and protect her forever, and his oath had been sealed under those very same leaves. It was a little place, not more than twenty or fewer trees, and they did not bear fruit at all. It was simply called the 'orchard', and every time it was mentioned, it brought secret smiles to the faces of those who knew it well.

He called the horses to a halt, brought himself down from the animal and then helped Christine down. They stood pensively for a moment, saying nothing and absorbing the magic of the sanctuary they had discovered. He turned to her and said nothing, while she returned with a small, sweet smile.

They laid down the lunch, breaking into long, laughter-filled conversation, as well as intellectual wit exchanges. He quietly sipped a glass of fine wine, gazing at Christine over the rim of the exquisite crystal glass. He found himself staring, laughing.

"And what, pry tell, is so amusing, Raoul?" she pushed her hair away from her face, the sunlight catching the auburn accents.

"Forgive me for saying so, my dear, but you."

She scrutinized him under wary eyes. "**I** am what you find so amusing?"

He nodded, feigning arrogance. "It seems I have found an impertinent bride."

She responded with a clear, heart-felt laugh, a noise like that of silvery bells that warmed his insides to hear. It was no wonder she wanted to sing. "Forgive _me_, sir, but I cannot understand _why_."

"Well," he confided, "you seem to be my match. In every aspect I see it from, that is what you are. Impossible as it may be, I admit that your charm quite outshines my own."

"Am I to take that as an insult, or a compliment?"

He sprung immediately to his feet, certain that he had startled her with his abruptness. She looked up at him with a face of innocence, the pure, unadulterated mockery gone. He smiled, hoping to disarm her, and helped her to her feet, holding tightly onto her hands. She looked at him expectantly, pushing him to explain his motive. He shook his head, lowering his voice to one he did not recognize.

"Christine, I would ask you to accompany me tomorrow night to the Gala at the Opera."

She hesitated, uncertain. "Raoul…?" she asked quietly, looking at him in bewilderment.

"Will you accompany me tomorrow evening at the Opera's Gala?" He was all seriousness, keeping his voice as grave as possible.

She furrowed her eyebrows, the all-too-familiar creases in her forehead appearing in what he knew to be confusion. "Raoul, why…"

He kissed her hands, one, and than the other. "I want you to know how much this means to me, and how much you mean to me, as well."

She nodded her head, understanding at last. He didn't need to explain why he asked her so suddenly. She understood all too well.

-'-,-'----

It was a difficult chapter for me, and I don't know why. Next chapter, I must say, is going to be far simpler. I promise you. And to those few who don't flip for Christine/Raoul, next chapter's for you. Also, it will be longer and updated sooner. Please leave reviews, they're the best. Thanks!


	13. What A Charming Gala!

-'-,-'----

"_**Comes down with the rush of a storm,  
**__**And the angels, all pallid and wan,  
**__**Uprising, unveiling, affirm  
**__**That the play is the tragedy "Man",  
**__**And its hero the Conqueror Worm."  
**_"_The Conqueror Worm", _E.A.P

-'-,-'----

The night was alive with the magnificent and grandiose enchantment of the most stunning night of the year at the Paris Opera. It was the _Bal Masque_, the one night of all seasons where participants of all classes could congregate together and dance the night away, regrets forgotten. Rich patrons of the theatre could meet to drink, eat and be merry lavishly, while the members of the corps de ballet could flaunt their pretty skirts and smile beckoningly at the richer patrons with pretty, made-up smiles. Divas in billowing, glamorous dresses danced happily around their many admirers, whilst the company members of lower respect whittled away their dignity with large amounts of booze, their faces red as their liquor-stained lips.

The massive party was held in the main foyer, a small band of orchestra members sitting off to one side, playing anything and everything that would summon dancers to recklessly abandon their egos and join together in one dance. Men in evening dress would fly onto the floor, bringing with them women in blues, reds, greens and golds, all having one aspect of their clothing in common. Masks. Satin, silk, leather, velvet, no matter their make, every person in the room hid behind one, concealing their faces for a single night so that they may display who they truly were, with no one knowing the better. A nobleman could make a fool of himself, traipsing around with a lover that he secretly saw, and no one would ever find them in the midst of gaiety and laughter and music.

She was just another one of them that night, eyes sparkling, wearing the most beautiful dress she had yet to see, her silver mask placed carefully over her eyes. She felt the most at peace she had felt in a very long time, and yet, even as she did, she also felt the most troubled.

Just yesterday, before Raoul had invited her to the Opera, she had wanted to confess something she could no longer account for, something she hid inside her heart that confused her more than worried her. She felt like she was a player in a dangerous game, one in which she was caught in the middle, and found no safe ground to tred upon. Being there at that very moment made her feel guarded, especially because she didn't know who would be watching her, and possibly saying things that would later haunt her.

That very morning, right after Christine's lesson with Erik, she had been confronted by a man she had never met before, and in such a way that she was immediately startled.

_She could not see his face, the gas lamps around them failing to bring his features to light. She took a few steps backward, her breaths becoming shallower and her eyes beginning to swim. _

"_Excuse me," she said, her entire body tightening with apprehensiveness._

_He said nothing, his dark eyes penetrating the distance between them. He hardly moved at all, the slight rustle of his coat being the only evidence he was living. She cleared her throat, attempting to pass quietly, when he finally spoke. _

"_Am I in your way? I would have thought you were staying a little… longer."_

_He was suspicious, the stifling manner in which he spoke suggesting menace in every syllable. Christine found herself searching incredulously for words, unable to produce a sentence in the face of possible danger._

_Then, out of the gloominess of the corridor came Erik, his sudden appearance as silent as death, his body slightly in front of Christine, as if protecting her against an unrecognized evil._

"_You were leaving, were you not, monsieur?"_

_The man remained silent, his bad humor increasing tenfold. He looked behind himself meticulously, saying not a word, and turned on his heel, stealing away in slow, deliberate steps. _

_Erik turned to Christine, a strange glow burning behind the eyeholes of his mask. "Are you alright, Christine?"_

_She took a deep breath, her eyes following the departing man. "Yes, I suppose so." Her eyes quickly returned to him, face anxious. "But how did you-.."_

"_I overheard your conversation," he replied simply._

Good hearing, _she thought, rather out of the moment. "Thank you for…well, for handling that. I was just taken aback. I didn't expect anyone to be in the hall."_

_He regarded her diligently, almost as if she were assaulted. "He said nothing offensive to you, I presume?"_

"_Nothing. I know this may sound foolish, but when he just stood there, looking at me, I felt almost…," she stopped, weighing her words. "I felt an impending danger. Not immediate, but something distinct."_

_He nodded. "You have a gift, Christine. It is not only your music, but also your perceptiveness towards others. I have noticed that in you."_

_She averted her eyes, straying her thoughts from the ones she was beginning to form._

"_Here," he said, handing her a score bulging with pages. "This will be your copy of the Opera to practice at home." He numbly handed it to her, his fingers brushing over hers briefly. She shivered involuntarily, certain that he had noticed it. _

She glanced around her at that moment, springing herself from that troubling memory that happened less than two days ago. She couldn't exactly pinpoint what made her uneasy, but it was a feeling she recognized, something that shook her to her very core.

She was soon forced out of her ponderings when Raoul's hand stole to her waist as a new wave of music began to play. "Mademoiselle?" he tempted.

"Monsieur," she answered politely.

She smiled at him as they began to move to the gentle playing of the instruments, following their melodies with the intricate movements of their hands, bodies and feet. Unconsciously, she found herself searching the room with her eyes whenever she could steal a glance away from Raoul, the temptation of finding whomever she was looking for irresistible. A few times her gaze directed her to a dark figure, moving amongst the crowd like an eerie shadow. She would often double-look, always missing the form but sure she had seen it. It wasn't until the music came to a steady stop several minutes later that she thanked Raoul for the dance, allowing him to kiss her cheek before going off to speak with another patron.

She stepped off the dance floor, distancing herself from the crowd to move towards the stairs. She climbed them deliberately, still searching the huge expanse for the shadow, expecting yet unresolved. She moved to the less-crowded balcony, overlooking the immense hall. Her view was incredible. Dancers of brilliant colors flew by like those unseen in a nature, their movements swift and dizzying. Only when she was distanced enough from the crowd, a few people passing her by to travel down to the party did she feel a breeze of familiarity, a sudden rush of iciness…

"Who's there?"

She turned around to see Erik, his hand raised as if he were about to touch her shoulder. He was wearing his usual mask, but with very different attire. He was wearing regal Persian robes of purple and gold velvet, a wide-brimmed fedora covering his head. He was also wearing a white poet's shirt beneath the rich robes, with black boots and gloves.

His countenance immediately softened, his hand falling to his side limply.

"Why do you look so surprised?" she inquired, a rushing hot sensation sweeping her face.

"I am not surprised, merely curious," he answered evenly, his voice holding the smallest trace of astonishment. "How did you detect my presence?"

"I sensed that you were here somehow. Plus, I saw a dark figure moving around the room."

"Ah, then I must do well to better hiding myself in the future."

"Why would you want to hide yourself?" she heedlessly asked.

He removed his gaze from her face, coming from behind her to overlook the proceedings of the Gala, his proximity frightening, and at the same time, exciting her. "In many ways, Christine, I hide myself no more than any of them do. To the unaware, they are merely concealing themselves behind masks. It is only the beginning of their deceit."

She copied his gaze, her eyes calmly tracing the movements of the entire crowd. As a group, they danced around the room, their counterparts playing the same game as they were. It was as if they were puppets on strings, their masters controlling their misguided and clumsy actions.

His voice was quiet, despite the rather loud noise level happening around them. It ran chills up her spine, its intoxicatingly delicate sound like the rustle of silk. "It is a game they play, my dear. One in which they show themselves only in their dealings and not in their words. I would beg your caution, Christine."

She looked at him with steady eyes, those deep, incandescent orbs pulling her closer like a moth to a flame. "I don't understand…"

"You are unlike them, Christine. You have the ability to rise above them all." He lowered his voice, bringing it to the smallest of whispers, and yet she could hear it plainly. "You could bring the world to its knees."

She gave an involuntary shudder, inhaling deeply as if afraid her breath might escape her body. She shook her head slightly, her eyes fixed on her feet, unable to say a word.

-'-,-'----

Madame Giry was walking through the halls on her way to the Gala, her late start due to her final attempts to distract Meg from the beckoning call of her wedding gown that she had attempted to snatch from under her mother's nose. She had said that there was no other occasion for which she might wear it other than her wedding day, and she had wanted to impress the other girls by wearing a dress that might outshine them all. Madame Giry rebuked the girl for promising such a ridiculous thing, and instead turned her away with nothing more than her usual fancy party dress. It was a rather plain thing, with few ribbons and not a bow in sight. It was a simple pale green, reminding one of spring time, even during the approaching autumn. Meg had twitted and fretted, but the final outcome had been her refusal to ignore her friends' call.

Her mother, on the other hand, had been rather discouraged from attending the party. After a long day of dance rehearsals with the adolescent ballerinas, the Ballet Mistress was rather weak on her feet, so to say. The years had left no moment of comfort, and each and every step the woman took was a task within itself.

When she descended the marble stairs to the party below, it was just as Monsieur Poligny had begun speaking to the crowd. She turned her eyes to the direction of the voice, trying to catch the intimation in the very middle.

"We feel that the Opera is in very reliable hands, and that there will be no major transactions to take place, including all jobs and positions. You have our solemn-most pledge that the Opera shall not change a mite with Monsieur Debienne and my departure."

Good lord in heaven, they were retiring! Madame Giry looked around her, her face of anxiety matching those of all around her. She turned back to the managers, noticing for the first time two new men beside them.

"With that said, I would like to introduce _l'Opéra's_ newest managers, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin."

The two men came to the front, removing their masks and waving to the intermittent, hesitant applause. She applauded politely, her mind reeling all the while. If this was to be a new change in the way the theatre was run, she could think of one person who would not sit easily with this occurance…

-'-,-'----

"A toast!" came a familiar- sounding ululation from below, causing Christine to spin towards the sound. All the while, Erik had been rigid beside her, unnoticing of her frequent and nervous glances that she sent him from the corner of her eye.

"To the new managers of the Opera…may the theatre see many seasons of prosperity and success!" Raoul raised his glass to the two managers and then slowing brought the crystal to his lips, taking a medium-sized drink.

Christine could not help but again look at Erik, his mysterious mood beginning to pluck her curiosity. "Erik, what is wrong?"

He seemed to shake himself from his reverie, his eyes an unreadable expression. "Nothing, my dear. Was that your young man speaking just now?"

For the first time, Christine noticed in Erik's voice, that beautiful, alluring voice of his, a definite note of bitterness. She was ignorant as to what had caused it, and was most perturbed by the noise.

"Yes, that was Raoul. He's…." As soon as she began the sentence, she wondered what she would have finished with. '_My fiancé'_, for some unknown reason, did not seem to be the best way to state what Raoul was to her. She was afraid to admit their relationship, although she need not admit that it was reality, for Erik had surely known.

He did not seem to mind her inability of speech, as he seemed to be watching a moving figure. "Well, Christine, it seems that your _young man_ is approaching at this very moment. I believe you will introduce us?"

Christine flinched at his tone, the sarcastic note burning into the space between them. Even as she knew this adversity was inevitable, she still wished that Raoul would come for her at any other moment beside the present one. She wanted to prepare Erik for Raoul, to let him know that he was only supporting her, and not withholding her from anything…

Raoul came up to them with a smiling face, his eyes dancing with the evening's splendor. "Ah, there you are, Christine dear."

Beside her, Erik became rigid once again, making Christine even more tense at Raoul's fond use of her name.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure. I must say I've looked forward to meeting you. Monsieur Erik, voice maestro, I believe?"

Raoul was of all humbleness, extending his hand with a friendly manner. Erik, unyielding at first, took his hand and gave a very brief shake before returning his hand to his side. "The pleasure is surely mine, Vicomte," Erik said in his beautiful, song-like voice.

Raoul looked delighted at Erik's response, ignoring any cool gesticulation Erik might have made. By some impetus, Christine broke the connection between them.

"Raoul was just saying to me the other day how he believed my vocal training was evident in my progress as your student," Christine hastily broke in.

"Did he, now? Have you any musical training at all, Monsieur Vicomte?"

Although his voice was of crisp politeness, Christine knew Erik well enough to know that his voice was leaking with sarcasm, not to mention dislike. She looked at him sternly, his eyes not straying for Raoul's guiltless face.

"I must say that I have not enough, monsieur. I began to learn the violin at a young age, but it seems that music is not quite my expertise."

"Then how can you deduce how Christine is improving?" Erik asked tactlessly.

Beginning to worry about the direction the conversation was flowing, Christine touched Erik's sleeve, unaware of the sparks flying through her fingertips. "He must have perceived that your coaching has been extremely beneficial to my voice. There are many perceiving people, it seems." Christine gave him a knowing glance, making her one point ahead of Erik in the game of wit. He inclined his head to her darkly, all the while his eyes trained on hers.

Raoul said nothing as they exchanged their mysterious dialogue, only looking between the two with an air of befuddlement. He coughed slightly, turning their attention away from each other and onto him. "So Monsieur, what is your position on the new managers? Richard and Moncharmin?"

"We shall have to see," Erik said quietly, turning his gaze back to Christine. "I must admit, Monsieur, that what is to come is a complete mystery to us all."

-'-,-'----

So, I hoped you enjoyed that chapter. Erik and Raoul had some tension, no? Well, definitely on Erik's part. He is immediately not liking Raoul, and can anyone tell why? Well, let's just say the jealousy is only beginning. Also, I felt compelled to add Madame Giry, as she is going to play a bigger part in the future. As will Lady Sorrel, if anyone can catch my drift. I hope it was satisfying to both parties of shippers! Hopefully some of you will begin to see which way I sway in my shipping. It'll only become more evident from here on out…

Review please! Your reviews are my inspiration!


	14. Who Will Be There For You?

-'-,-'----

"_And all my days are trances  
__And all my nightly dreams,  
__Are where thy dark eye glances,  
__And where thy footstep gleams-  
__In what ethereal dances,  
__By what eternal streams."  
__- '**To One In Paradise', **_**E.A.P.**

-'-,-'----

Hours later, and her voice was still in his mind.

He couldn't break the pressing migraine that began to form weakly, then grew stronger as each untamed burst of emotion passed. It was as if a spell was overcoming him, a dose of morphine that was so bitterly sweet that he detested the feeling as much as he was enthralled by it. It was this euphoria that began to lethargically tick away at his internal clock.

_Oh, how he hated the sound of dying footsteps_…

He heard them daily, and yet they were never too faint nor too regular for him to predict their goings. It was as if the **world** were happening above him, a whole life without his presence being known. A whole life he would never have…

Talking with de Chagny had left him with the most difficult emotions he had yet to experience. They were new, raw, and unintentional, yet they clutched his heart like a cold hand and shook him to the very core. He could name them, one after the other. Apathy, for his social circumstances and how hatefully charming the young Vicomte was. If the boy had come under a case of true heartbreak, or worse, he would not spare a single moment of sympathy for him. The second emotion was disdainfully fresh, gripping his heart like no other emotion had ever before, not even rage.

Jealousy.

It was the way he had spoken to her, the way he had used her name. His eyes held a modest possessiveness, Erik had been quick to notice that. He was not outlandish in any aspect of his personality at all, and yet he could see how the boy considered Christine to be his. Just by closing his eyes, he could see his hand about her waist, his fingers passing through her lustrous hair, his hand against her skin. It was as if his world relied on her happiness, as if he could not bear to live if she were not beside him.

The only thing more painful than these thoughts was the realization that Erik felt the very same for her.

It had not taken much time at all to realize that he was completely captivated by the young ingénue. Her voice alone was enough to bring the seraphs of heaven to their knees, their tears of envy spilling at her feet. She was an angel, a descendent of heaven that had fallen into the home of another with tears in her eyes and a heart that was only half-full. He saw the pain in her eyes when the memory of her father pressed her, and every single time he watched the emotions conflict in her eyes, all he wanted was to make his presence known to her and hold her forever. She was perfect, she was exceptional…

She was _his_.

The jealousy was enough to tear his heart in two. Not only was it the reality that she belonged to another, but also the actuality that she would never be his. With the exception of his circumstances set aside, Christine would never be able to belong to him. After all, who would deny the chance of marrying into nobility?

He gritted his teeth as he paced his music room, his sanctuary, the darkness overwhelming his mental stability. His emotions were building up inside of him like a wild tempest, the likes of which he had never experienced in a very long time…..not since the death of another.

Christine's face flashed through his head, her sweet, beautiful face smiling with all the compassion and trust in the world. He sat down at his organ, ready to pour his soul in his music and never return.

_Oh, Christine, why does the world torment us so? _

They were two suffering souls, two kindred spirits. He knew it.

_Why would Fate have us meet if you belonged to another?_

-'-,-'----

"Stop, stop, your posture is completely atrocious."

She sucked in her breath sharply, as if a hard blow had come to her abdomen. His voice was harsh, raw, as if he were harboring emotions that were slashing his insides.

"You cannot expect to produce a decent sound if you do not hold the proper stance. You should be standing. Fine. Now, square your feet to your shoulders. Push your shoulders back. There, now try it again, from the sixteenth measure."

She tried again, desperately attempting to please him in his foul mood. For all the patience she knew he could have, she hadn't yet experienced Erik in his dark intolerance.

"You have not been practicing your breathing, Christine. Do you honestly wish to faint dead away? I can tell from your voice, you are panting."

She stared at the door on the opposite end of the room, wishing that she could sneak away without him noticing. Fresh tears glistened in her eyes, burning her throat as she tried to blink them away. This new, unexpected side of Erik was drawing on Christine's pride, as well as discouraging her. What had caused him to be so spiteful?

Two hours had already passed in their lesson, and not once had Erik allowed Christine a break. When the intermission finally came, Christine slumped down on the chaise, fanning herself with her hand as if she had been running. There was silence in the room for a short period of time, not a single sound coming from Erik's side.

"Did I do something wrong?" she finally asked, the words spilling from her tongue, rather without meaning to.

A few seconds passed before he answered, a sigh on his lips. "No, Christine, you did nothing at all."

"Did something happen?" she re-adjusted herself on the chaise, draping her dress over the embroidered cushions.

"The new managers," he said bitterly, the resentment in his voice nothing but apparent. "They are insufferable. It is impossible to negotiate with them and it makes my position… _difficult_."

"What exactly _is_ your position?" Christine inquired, her curious nature taking the better of her.

"What I am doing now."

"You have other students?" Christine asked, surprised at her own dismay at the prospect of sharing Erik with another student, especially if it were a woman. The thought alone filled her with a sick, cold feeling, and try as she might she could not push it away.

"You are my only, _mon cherie_."

She felt her face warm, the room becoming a bit uncomfortable in its temperature. His voice had once again resumed its sweet, caressing tone that reminded her of her father's. Like violin strings and the soft, crispness of sheet music.

"Then what _do_ you mean?" she continued, hoping to pass the awkward moment as hastily as possible.

"I have an authority in this Opera House that should be recognized, Christine. When that does not happen, things tend to go badly."

An involuntary shiver ran through her at the way he said the last word. She couldn't begin to imagine what he meant by that, but she was learning better than to pry into Erik's personal business.

It was once again silent, and Erik ventured to break the stillness. "Did the Vicomte enjoy a pleasant evening at the Gala?"

She couldn't detect the emotion behind his voice, for he kept it polite and detached, but she resolved not to study too closely, in fear of discovering something she did not like. "I would imagine so. His heart was set so much on going that I'm afraid he must have tired himself out. The poor soul fell asleep and slept til noon."

"Is he home very often?" he continued in that emotionless voice, although his voice became quieter.

She bit her lip, trying to answer as best she could. "He means to, I know he does. I shouldn't spite him for being away as often as he is, because Philippe expects great things from him…it's only that I wish he weren't so concerned with business. It's almost like an omen of what's to come, even if it's only a difficult time for Raoul and Philippe. I'm sure it won't always be this way." She felt an aching feeling her chest, a small little nagging that reprimanded her for speaking badly about Raoul.

"It is a consequence of nobility, my dear. It is to be expected that the Vicomte will be caught up in his affairs. There will be times where you will not know his whereabouts, and to demand them of him will only aggravate him."

Christine said nothing, looking thoughtfully at the ring on her finger, her hand resting on the arm of the chaise. "I know," she said quietly. "I suppose I'm being selfish in wanting him to be home more often. Nicole and Odette are lovely, but they wait on us, and it's not the same as having a companion around everyday of the week. When he's not at home, and when I'm not here, I'm lonely again, and I don't want to be lonely anymore…" Her voice began to crack with emotion, her embarrassment and elapsed grief taking hold. "I don't mean to be like this…"

"I do not condemn you for being human, Christine. You have feelings like everyone else does. There is nothing selfish about anything you have just said."

She nodded, tasting salt on her tongue and feeling sharpness in her throat.

"Did _you_ enjoy a pleasant evening, Christine?"

She smiled, his concern for her happiness being a great flattery. "Yes," she said in that far-off voice she tended to have at times. "The dancing and the music were exceptional. I hadn't remembered hearing music like that for a long time, not since the days in which my father played. I only wish that I might have danced with you, though, Erik."

The last comment she hadn't meant to voice out loud, and it seemed to take both of them by surprise. She pursed her lips, studying her hands avidly and not daring to look up. He didn't respond, and she could imagine how ridiculous she must have sounded, voicing her impromptu thoughts to her mentor.

"Forgive me, Erik, I don't know what has gotten into me today."

His voice was entirely flat, though it took him a moment to form his response. "It is no worry, my dear. Although I suspect your throat must be sore. Go home and rest your voice."

"Thank you, Erik. _Adieu_," she said softly, picking up her score and heading for the exit.

-'-,-'----

A smile crossed her lips. A small, innocent smile, yet one that was more dangerous than all the deadly venom held in a glass of poison. Her palms were face down on Philippe's desk, her plum-colored nails slightly unsheathed. Her eyes held a quiet triumph; a sparkling reminiscence of a previous conquest that she saw was once again in sight. The light of the noon-high sun was bright against her face, accentuating her flawless features like porcelain.

Philippe sighed heavily, running his fingers over the edge of his brandy glass. A fire was no longer burning in the grate, but the deep, dark vestiges of glaring embers remained. His sigh was one of life weariness, like he had been fighting a losing battle.

"It can't be done," he pressed her, the tenth time that morning.

"It can and it will," she replied crisply, her disarming smile becoming steadily more irritating.

"How can you be so sure?" he sat up straighter in his chair, looking at her with a stern expression as he lifted the glass to his mouth, his mustache bristling over the rim.

"Because," she drawled, her voice little more than a purr, "I can rely on my agents. They have yet to fail me." She removed her hands from the lavishly carved desk, moving towards the wall and leaning thoughtfully against the chair rail. "Besides, you and I have an understanding. You want this as much as I do, surely, if not more. Look how far we've come, Philippe. Is it not too late to turn back now?"

He stood, looking at the window and drawing the curtain. "Raoul will be back soon from the Opera. You'd best leave."

She came towards him, snatching his glass from him and draining its contents. "Don't look so surprised, Philippe. You know better than anyone I handle any situation and make the best of it, as well as any man could." She smacked her lips, lifting her gloves from the desk and heading towards the door. "Oh, don't see me out. I'm sure I can find the way." At the door she turned on her heel, her fingers just brushing the knob. "Between us only, Philippe. I know I need not tell you so, but do best to keep this in confidence. Especially with Christine around."

Philippe's frown deepened, his imminent aggravation increasing blindly. "_Goodbye_, Sorrel."

-'-,-'----

Is everyone with me? I just want to make sure everyone is starting to see the plot unravel. I'm afraid I'll let all my plans spill because I'm so anxious to write them down.

I'd like to thank all my reviewers. You guys are really awesome, and I'm so lucky that you guys like my stuff.

To those who don't review, PLEASE do so. It means a lot.


	15. The Way Things Might Have Been

"_Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?  
__Why and what art thou dreaming here?  
__Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,  
__A wonder to these garden trees!  
__Strange is thy pallor! Strange thy dress!  
__Strange, above all, thy length of tress,  
__And this all solemn silentness!"  
__- **The Sleep, E.A.P.  
**_

-'-,-'----

It was a rich, crisp afternoon in the late summer heat. The weather was warm, yet still, with only a light breeze to flap around the ankles of the pine trees in the shadowed region of the grounds, rustling the few leaves that the trees had begun to relinquish. The scent of birch and flower sailed upon the grass like waves upon the sea, their quiet movements almost like music in the beauty of the darkening light. Not a cloud in the sky overcast the dying day, the vibrant blue growing darker into a fading shade of sapphire as the sun tipped delicately into the tawny afternoon. Sunlight spilled over the earth like golden eyelashes, sweeping the evening into dusk.

"Oh, Christine, _do_ tell us what traveling around Europe was like."

Christine shook herself from her reverie, her particularly made-up hairstyle falling apart as untamed tendrils escaped their stiff imprisonment. She had been staring into the sunset, the brilliant colors of the evening capturing her being and taking her away into a realm of beauty. "I beg your pardon?"

Clarice giggled despite herself, squeezing Christine's hand and bringing her other hand to mouth, cupping it to prevent the sound from reaching the ears of the girls sitting two feet away. "Azura was just going on about this horribly irksome habit she has for talking about politics." She straightened back against her seat, gazing at her sister-in-law affectionately. "Really, Azura darling, I'm sure our guest has heard a lifetime's worth of…_masculinity_."

"For your information, _mademoiselle_, my interests are not in the least bit _masculine_."

Huette joined the conversation, her own disbelief etched on her hard, determined face. "Actually, Clarice does have a point."

Azura contented herself with pouting and gazing out across the vast amount of property her husband owned.

"So, tell us!" Clarice said enthusiastically, her excitement spilling over to an almost childish enthrallment. "It must have been terribly fascinating to travel to several different places, just pick up and leave and see the world."

Christine knew that Clarice did not mean any maliciousness by her sentiment, but Christine still felt an uncomfortable prick of not-belonging, of being a weed amongst buds. "There isn't much to tell. My father had never been able to stabilize a steady income for the both of us, compelling us to travel to several places in order to go on." Christine found that her voice no longer cracked with the mention of her father, and was thus gratified, if momentarily.

"Still, all that time meeting different people, seeing new faces. Is it true that your father was a famed violinist? Grant mentioned this when he spoke to Monsieur de Changy last. Imagine that! It seems that your musical talents must come from him, no?"

Azura and Huette both groaned in time to Clarice's ever-happening slip of the tongue. Clarice looked over at them, a question on her tongue, her beckoning, youthful smile transforming slowly into a look of raw shame.

Christine couldn't help but feel a twinge of compassion for Clarice. In some ways, they seemed very much alike; they stood out from what would be considered the 'normal' women of society. They wanted desperately to feel joy, and they wanted to be loved.

Christine glanced over at Azura, her dark blonde head bent over her needlework, her fingers moving skillfully. Her deep, soulful eyes were hidden by the cover of the shadows, yet Christine knew what lay beyond those quiet depths. There was passion, opinion, a voice. She had something to say, an intelligence that was half-hidden, yet poked its intriguing head out when called upon. She hid like an animal that might hibernate for a spell, then come out and explore the world. The only difference was that she would not come out. Not unless it was safe. She was also imaginative. As much as she might pretend, she appreciated beauty and art, a world devoid of crude ugliness and meanness. The world she wished for was a pure, wholesome one. Christine felt the most sympathetic towards her.

Huette was the most mysterious of the trio. Try as she might, Christine could not discern what was taking place in Huette's mind. Her dark appeal was something Christine knew held a deep secret, one that Christine wasn't sure she wanted to discover.

"You will stay for supper, will you not Christine? It's getting quite dark, and I'm sure our driver could take you home whenever you wish."

Christine smiled at Azura, her own wish for that beautiful world she saw reflecting in her soulful eyes. Perhaps Azura wasn't as locked away as she appeared. "I would like that," she answered genuinely.

-'-,-'----

Nicole stepped over the threshold of Christine's bedroom, holding tightly a journal to her chest. The candlelight had burnt out long ago, and all that was left was the flat stub of the wax. Moonlight spilled into the room and across the face of the young girl, sleeping soundly on the bed, the sheets wrapped around her tightly.

She had awoken at this hour, as she usually did, with her usual uneasiness that came about with night. The darkness never quite agreed with Nicole, and presently she still felt shivers when a shadow crossed over the floor. Walking over to the window, Nicole silently shut the pane, the breeze that might have come across the room being too chilly to be comfortable. Just as she was about to leave, a small, calm voice broke into the silence, causing the girl to jump in fright, nearing stumbling over her own feet.

"Oh, Nicole, it's only you, dear," Christine said shakingly.

Christine draped the sheets over the bed, wrapping a silk robe around herself. "You gave me quite a scare," she said with a smile.

"Be-begging your pardon, Christine," Nicole said with a shiver.

Christine frowned. "Are you alright, Nicole? Here, come sit on the bed with me. You look like you've had a nightmare."

Nicole came to the bed timidly, sitting next to Christine with a pasty complexion. "It wasn't a nightmare I had," she began softly, "I'm just afraid of the dark."

Christine nodded. "I understand. I'm afraid too, sometimes. Night can be quite mysterious, but that doesn't mean it's bad, or evil even. We just don't always see as well in the dark as we do in the day." Christine brushed a straw-like bang out of Nicole bottle-green eyes, her gaze and expression soft. "Sometimes…it can be a good thing."

"I suppose," Nicole answered ruefully.

"Christine…" Nicole began, tilting her face up to look Christine in the eyes. "Do you like being here?"

"Well of course I do, Nicole, why ever would you ask that?"

Nicole looked away bashfully, craving to share her thoughts with her mistress. "Sometimes, Christine…sometimes I imagine you somewhere else. I cannot help but do so. Sometimes, I see you in the middle of a stage, your long hair unpinned and flowing, and other times I see you under the stars, walking like you were in a dream. Sometimes I imagine I'm there with you, and we're good friends, and you're the happiest person alive." Nicole turned her eyes back to Christine, her expression one of desperate hope. "Oh, Christine, do tell me you're very happy! Nothing would make me more at ease at night than if you were so."

Christine's attention went to her hands, lying plainly on her lap with the moonlight accentuating them. She stared at them hard, her eyes narrow and her lips pursed. "Nicole, do you really care for me so?"

"Yes," was Nicole's sweet, honest answer.

Christine turned back to her, holding her hands and giving them a tight squeeze. "Never fear, Nicole. I'm as happy as can be, and even more so that I have a friend whom I love dearly to be with me."

Nicole's mouth turned into the shape of an 'o', a small gasp escaping her freckled lips. "You really love me, Christine?"

"I do. Now, run off to bed. I'm feeling drowsy and I'm afraid I may nod off in a second."

Nicole rose from the bed quickly, helped Christine into her own sheets, not before Christine gave Nicole a sweet peck on her head.

-'-,-'----

The next morning, Christine ventured into the music room, the dearest room to her in the entire manor. Upon first discovering its existence, her reaction had been one that would always protrude from her memory. As soon as she had arrived, she had insisted, demanded, that she be taken straight to it before she saw her own room. What met her eyes was more than satisfactory - it was perfect. The room was tiled with beautiful, antique marble, shipped straight from Italy, with five large, floor-to-ceiling Venetian windows. A massive, ebony grand piano stood in the center of the room, its long body reflecting a sparking, crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Two of the walls were lined with plain bookcases filled with musical scores and trinkets, as well as several biographies and novels that didn't belong in the library. It was simple in elegance, and as beautiful as a dream.

She walked across the floor, her slippers smooth against the sleek surface. The windows were opened, letting in the fresh, autumn morning air. She walked over to the piano bench and sat down, her eyes dropping to the music stand and noticing that it was empty. It made sense. No one in the household was particularly musically-inclined, as much to her knowledge. Philippe had taken violin lessons temporarily from her father, with not much passion to be found. His progress revealed that he might have potential for the craft, but his own interest was not strong enough to lead to greatness. Raoul, however, had a great love for music. It was one of the many reasons that compelled the brothers to become the patrons of the theater. Yet as much as he admired music, his own ability wasn't half as revered.

Christine stroked the cool, flat surface of the ivory keys, each brush causing her to wonder what it would be like to see Erik's hands glide over these keys, each masterful impact like another string of heaven being plucked from the winds. The thought of him in the music room made her skin tingle with an unfamiliar pressure. She couldn't be sure, but for some reason the thought of him alone began to make her look over her shoulder, as if he might be watching her from somewhere amongst the shadows of their lives. He reminded her of all things she dreaded. Mystery. Danger. Unease.

Seduction.

Yet even as she stared down at the keys, his presence also represented, to her, so many things she wanted. Passion. Fulfillment. Music.

Freedom.

He was as much a mystery to her as he was a guiding spirit. She knew that she could tell him almost everything, simply because she knew he would listen. He would understand. He frightened her at times, she could not deny that, but when he wasn't foul, he was gentle and soothing. More than anything, she wished he would unveil himself to her, least of all stand in the same room as her. She sometimes thought that he found her presence detestable, that he couldn't stand to be in the same room as someone who couldn't hit a note perfectly after numerous tries. But then he would say some comforting word, something to let her know that her efforts were fruitful, and she wondered if it had something to do with his mask, and the secrets he might be concealing under it.

A knock on the large, wooden door made her raise her head from the piano. "Might I come in?"

"You may, Raoul. It is, after all, _your_ house."

He winced, his eyes traveling to the corners of the room. "It is also your house too, Christine. You do realize that, don't you?"

Christine stood cautiously, coming over to him and setting her hand on his arm. "Of course, Raoul. I didn't mean-,"

"It's fine, Christine. There's something here for you."

Raoul extended a small, plain letter to her, addressed to a 'Mademoiselle Christine Daae'. Christine took the letter from him and opened it.

-'-,-'----

Okay, this chapter wasn't exactly what I planned on it being….it was a bit of a filler, I admit. Please, if you think there is anything that I should fix or work on, DO tell me. I accept criticism, as long as it's constructive.

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! Continue sending them!


	16. You'd Never Get Away With All This

-'-,-'----

"_**There are some qualities – some incorporate things  
**__**That have a double life, which thus is made  
**__**A type of twin entity which springs  
**_**_From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade."  
_****E.A.P. – "Silence"**

-'-,-'----

There was no address on the envelope, nor was there a return address, little less a name. It was quite simply a white, medium-sized envelope with her name in scrawled, rather shabbily written hand. Instead of answering any questions, it only created them.

_Mademoiselle Daae,_

_Please excuse my need to consult with you through post, even more so that it is being received at home. I have written to inform you that I am not longer available to instruct you in vocal training. Please by no means take this as a personal offense. Certain circumstances have developed that have caused my decision to withdraw my services. _

_Respectfully yours _

_  
_Christine re-read the letter four times, her head swimming with faintness. What did he mean by, "_Certain circumstances have developed"? _And why, **_why_**, did he not sign the letter?His words were baffling, as were they short and impersonal. It was as if the letter was written with no memory at all of their past, of the words they had exchanged, the music they had shared, the moments of silent and not-so-silent connection. Why would he cut his tie to her so quickly and efficiently?

For some reason, Christine could not hear his voice when she read the letter. It was quite possible that it had not been from him at all, but such a hope was to be quickly dashed. Bitter tears welled up in her eyes, mottling her vision and burning her throat like acid. _Why would he do such a thing? Would it be to suppress some feeling he might have? Something that I might have caused? _She would have given all she was at that moment to know that the letter was false, that it had not been written by him at all. She was desperate to see him, to run straight up to him, shove the letter at him and demand whether he had sent it to her or not. It was a matter of the utmost importance. It was life and death. If only at that moment.

Without thinking, Christine headed to her room, Raoul quick on her heels, his voice distantly calling to her, a blurred sound lost in the tempest that was her reality.

"Christine, what is it?"

_I must get to the Opera…_

"Christine! Christine, what did it say?"

_I need to know the truth, the entire truth…_

"Christine, stop and tell me what's wrong!"

_This isn't real…why would he do this to me? To us?_

"**_Christine_**!"

She had just entered her room when Raoul finally grabbed her shoulders, spinning her around with a distraught look on his face. "Good God, Christine, what has gotten into you? Tell me what the letter said."

She opened her mouth wordlessly, moving her lips with her no success at speech. She swallowed, hoping to clear her throat and her mind simultaneously, to end the constant pounding in her ears. "Erik has withdrawn his services."

"_What_?"

"His letter is so confusing, Raoul. I have to speak with him, immediately. I have to know why it is that he is pushing me away."

"I'll go with you."

"No, Raoul…no. You should stay here. I think….I need to do this alone."

Raoul took her hand in his, rubbing his thumbs over her fingers. "I don't like that you're so independent with your lessons. If only you'd let me escort you to them, or perhaps have them here instead of the Opera, I would be much more obliged."

"I know, Raoul. Maybe, if I convince him to take me back, we can arrange to have our lessons here. But right now I need to see him. I'm afraid what will happen if I don't."

He dropped her hands, stepping away from her gravely. "Yes, of course, love. Go now."

She nodded. She took off, leaving Raoul behind her, watching forlornly as his last chance to separate Christine from her old life slipped away.

-'-,-'----

The bright, glistening morning quickly transformed into dark gloominess, the bleak, charcoal sky threatening to open up as distant thunder rumbled in the distance. The smell and feel of rain, salty and sweet, was upon Christine's skin, prickling her arms and causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end. There was no weather to better reflect her mood.

The Opera was a dark, ominous monster across the grey canvas, the angels at the top of the building jetting out like gargoyles rather than seraphs. Quickly ascending the hard, cold steps leading up to the building, Christine barely responded as Bailey called out to her. Another voice lost in the wind.

The sharp, pattering sound of heels against marble rang like gongs throughout the foyer. So quick was her pace that she completely ignored all around her until a person blocked her path.

"Child, what could possibly be so urgent that you would ignore me when I call your name?"

Christine skidded to a halt, so fast was her mind reeling that she didn't match the person's name to their face. After an instant, she shook her head apologetically. "Madame Giry, forgive me, I did not realize it was you."

The older woman's face was grave, stern and reproaching. "Christine, you should not be at the Opera alone. Are you looking for something in particular? Or someone?"

Nodding emphatically, Christine's ghostly complexion began to resume its natural rosy coloring. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Do you know where I might find Erik? It's of the utmost importance."

Madame Giry froze. Even at Christine's questioning gaze, Madame Giry did not mobilize her shocked, somewhat frightened expression. Entirely bewildered by the reaction, Christine gently touched the woman's arm, searching the woman's face for an answer.

"Madame Giry? Is something the matter?"

"How do you know Erik?"

Her voice was low and commanding, saying the name as if it were a curse upon her lips. Her eyes took on a steely glaze, as if the panic and danger simmered beneath the glassy surface.

"He's," Christine began, swallowing the rising dread in her voice, "….someone I need to speak with."

Madame Giry glanced about her, looking towards the direction of a few ballet rats that were scurrying about. Taking Christine by the forearm, she led her to a darkened corner of the foyer, her grip on Christine firm and solid.

"Madame Giry, what is the meaning of this? I don't understand. Erik sent me a letter and-,"

"How did you meet?"

Christine looked taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"How did you meet? Where and when?"

While Christine conveyed the story, the older woman listened intently, frowning at times and looking away in others, as if in thought. She pursed her lips tightly, causing the already calloused lips to go stark white. She then spoke.

"Christine, you must listen to me. You must protect yourself while in this theater. Do not trust everyone around you. I have heard rumors, Christine, and from what I have learned, you may be in danger."

"Do you mean from Erik?" Christine's voice held guarded wariness, her body suddenly tense.

Madame Giry looked Christine straight in the eyes, her hooded eyelids accentuated by the shadows. It seemed to make her stern face even older. "Do you think you are in any danger from him?"

Christine sighed, rubbing her temples with her fingers. "I don't know. To be truthful, Madame, I hardly know anything about him. But I trust him. For _some_ reason, Madame, I feel as if I could trust him."

The woman nodded, understanding. "Yes. Well, if you feel that way, I believe you are in no danger. From him. But be cautious, my dear. I would be the first to tell you that the walls have ears, and that anything you do may be caught by prying eyes. Be cautious."

As the older woman began to walk away, Christine tugged at her sleeve. "Madame Giry. Erik. Where might I find him?"

She raised an eyebrow, her froze features melting as she looked over her shoulder. "Where do _you_ think he is, Christine?"

-'-,-'----

He could not sleep. He had been up all night, his mood fouler and his music even fouler. Even as he played he could not plough out the aching tenderness of his raw emotions.

He had only been going for a stroll around the Opera, concealed of course, when he noticed Christine and Madame Giry conversing in the shadows. Getting the better part of the conversation, he was able to make out that Madame Giry believed Christine to be in trouble. From whom, however, she did not say.

She _did_ say, however, that Christine did not have to fear from him. Christine had said that herself. She said she _trusted_ him. Yet, even as though spoke of him, Erik feared that Madame Giry would give him away. That every precaution he had taken to be able to instruct Christine would all be for naught.

He was pleasantly staggered.

Nevertheless, Christine was on her way to the dressing room, and Erik knew that she had to speak with him.

He was sitting on the divan when Christine entered the room, her eyes trained on his. She was pale once more, her normally bright cheeks somewhat ashy. She eyes, normally dancing, were dull and lifeless. And indignant.

"Erik."

One word alone made him stand, as if she owned his soul.

Did she?

"Did you send me this letter?" she held out the letter in her hand, her eyes never leaving his face. Erik took the letter silently, reading the unfamiliar print and meeting her inquiring gaze.

"Christine, I promise that I had nothing to do with the writing of this letter. It is not in my hand."

Christine did not waver. "You are certain?"

He nodded, studying the letter again. "Whoever has written this message seems to want to prevent you from attending your lessons." Meeting her still uncertain face, he sighed deeply, motioning for her to follow him to the dresser. Setting the letter down next to a piece of scrap paper, he took a pen from inside his cloak and dipped it into a small jar of unopened red ink. Slowly, he wrote her name without a word, handing her the small piece of paper in silence.

Looking at the paper, Christine's hands began to tremble. "Erik, I'm- I'm so sorry-,"

"No apology is necessary, my dear. You are entitled to your doubts, as am I entitled to my concern."

"I shouldn't doubt you. After all you've done for me…." She smoothed out the small paper in her hands, her hands still shaking. Her voice was nothing but a tremor, frightful and child-like.

She walked a few feet away from him, practically falling on the divan where he had sat only moments before. How he wished he could sit next to her, hold her hands in his consolingly, speak to her gently and tell her that everything was going to be alright. But even he, the infamous ghost of the Paris Opera, undoubtedly the greatest liar of all, could not tell the girl that she was not in danger.

-'-,-'----

Well, I hoped you liked this chapter. Yes, a plot is certainly beginning to unfold. By the ways, if any of you would like to see a new 'Phantomish' movie, GO SEE V FOR VENDETTA. This is **not** advertising, it is simply just an author's advice to her readers if they would like to enjoy a movie that reminds one of Phantom. Believe me, it really does.

Review please!


	17. I Heard As I've Never Heard Before

"_**But when within thy wave she looks-  
**__**Which glistens then, and trembles-  
**__**Why, then, the prettiest of brooks  
**__**Her worshipper resembles;  
**__**For in his heart, as in thy stream,  
**__**Her image deeply lies-  
**__**His heart which trembles at the beam  
**__**Of her soul-searching eyes."  
**_"**To The River" – E.A.P.**

-'-,-'----

She sat hunched over, staring at her hands with solemn dismay. In her quiet revelation, she vaguely felt his scorching eyes burning into her as she refused to meet his gaze. She felt suddenly bitter, as if her world was beginning to crumble yet again, that everything she was becoming accustomed to was failing her. Her entire essence, her soul, had ridden on the safety of a promise, a devoted vow that she would be sheltered and loved for all her life, that she would live free from fear and from doubt. Now, she was once more afraid. And because of her fear, she was angry.

"How can this be?" she asked quietly, her speech aimed at herself.

She heard him begin to pace slowly, though she did not look up.

"I don't believe you had nothing to do with this letter, Erik. But if that is true, someone must be watching me." She paused, her strong, determined voice beginning to waver. "But what could this mean?"

"You see the concept of it, do you not?" Erik suddenly said aloud. She shook her head, still not meeting his gaze. From above her, she could hear the low, primal guardedness in his tone, as if he felt threatened himself. It was like an untamed, stealthy creature taking form in the glory that was his voice. "As a distraction, not only as a threat. It could very well be someone you know who is purposely leading you astray." He suddenly stopped moving, and Christine could feel the air around them suddenly change, the intensity in the room becoming more pronounced. "It could even be someone of your acquaintance, my dear."

She shook her head in disbelief. "I can't understand it. I won't."

"Christine, you must listen. Someone is trying to divert you. There is a plot taking place, and I fear that I know who must be behind it."

She said nothing, waiting for his reply. When he did not say a word, her head shot up sharply, looking at him with her dark eyes, blazing with some foreign emotion not familiar to them.

"You can not be implying that Raoul is the source of this conspiracy?" At his silence, Christine sprung to her feet, her words challenging him to react. "How dare you," she said quietly, her voice shaking with her emotions. "How could you imply such a thing? Raoul has only seen to my protection and comfort from the start - ,"

"And do you believe that he _approves_ of your interests? Of your affairs that you do not indulge him with?" he asked pointedly, his low, ominous voice like cold water running down the length of her neck.

Her voice was quiet with hurt. "You do not know - ,"

"The boy is a distraction, Christine. You do not realize your full potential because of him. If you were ever to rise to your full ability, a great possibility but one that is lost within the excesses of your _noble_ life, you would see that such a distraction is indeed hindering."

Her eyes gleamed, meeting his burning gaze, locked in a battle of endurance which she felt she was steadily losing. "You cannot believe that it was him," she said after a moment, the anger in her voice fading to reach confident, yet fatigued certainty. "He is my fiancé, Erik."

"Yes," he said quietly, turning his back on her. "Of that I am aware."

Christine studied his back with renewed, faint awareness, wishing that they had not entered such a dispute, even if she knew one was to take place. It certainly was not the one she expected to occur. After a few moments of tense silence, she wrapped her arms around herself, drawing in a deep sigh. She tried to pry her eyes off of the mysterious, intense tutor before her, but she found it was more difficult than she thought. He was a rock, and yet she had seen moments of tenderness. If she ever sought a moment of kindness, any special attention other than the relationship that had created, it was now. She needed more. "This has nothing to do with this letter, does it?"

His shoulders shook slightly, as if he felt a slight chill, but despite the brief movement, he made no reply.

She took a step forward, her defiance sparking an inferno of energy through her body. "You don't think Raoul had anything to do with this. We both know that. I don't understand why you would want me to believe he would do any such thing, but the truth of the matter is, he wouldn't." She could hear the sound of feet racing by, causing her heart to leap into her throat, sudden fear clenching it. When the sound passed, she returned her attention to her masked companion. "But I believe you're right. I think someone is trying to threaten me, and for that I need your help. There's no one in this world to protect me, save Raoul, and I realize that if I'm to continue with my lessons, he won't be able to protect me well enough. I need someone I can trust in."

She swallowed, uncertain he was even listening to her shaking voice. Still, she had to try. "I need a friend."

Achingly slowly, he turned to face her, regarding her with a strange, unnamed expression lingering in his amber eyes. He took a few steps forward, coming closer to her than he had ever before. She tilted her head to look up at him, and watched as he slowly lifted his gloved hand to her face, yet not touching it. She now recognized the emotions in his eyes, and knew them well: pity, contempt, longing, confusion. He felt as she did, she could sense it. He was alone as well. Something within her begged him to say that he would save her from her loneliness, that he would fulfill the emptiness that clouded her heavy heart. She longed to understand this mysterious, powerful presence before her, to know all of his dark passions and secrets, to learn who he truly was beneath the façade of indifference.

His hand drifted to her cheek, only hovering, not daring to caress her flesh. She felt paralyzed with fear, afraid of what might happen if he touched her.

"Are you certain you require this of me?"

She nodded slowly, fear still clouding her eyes. His voice had been so soft, so smoothing, it felt quite literally like cool rain pouring over, into her hair and over her shoulders, a breath of reassurance.

"If I am not to hide from you, Erik, you must not hide from me any longer."

He said nothing, only looking at her fiercely.

She stepped back, breaking the spell that had been cast so darkly over them. "I must go. I'm expected at home shortly."

The enchantment was broken instantly. "The Vicomte expects you to return with a broken determination."

"It is not broken," she answered quietly.

He said nothing, swiftly turning away from her to retreat to the door.

She followed him meekly, watching with increasing weariness as he opened the door for her, seeming to not care for following. "When shall I see you again?"

"I shall inform you of our next lesson by post. Take great care in your journey home, my dear. I shall be communicating with the managers about your circumstances."

A flash of fear sprang into her eyes, and she was certain he noticed it.

"Do not fear, Christine. I shall be most discrete in my investigations. _L'Opera _is a vast domain, one I am certain hides no secrets from myself. There is nothing I do not see that occurs here."

The thought brought some matter of reassurance, yet trepidation as well. She nodded slowly, wrapping her cloak closer around her thin frame. "Very well, _maestro_. Thank you."

She attempted to brush past him swiftly, but not before his voice, soft and seductive, stopped her in her tracks, the feeling of cool, stale breath upon her hair.

"_Remember our agreement, Christine. I am your teacher and you must remember that I am here to guard and guide you."_

She nodded, the air in her lungs suddenly becoming very cold.

"I do."

-'-,-'----

_Blast his confounded impertinence!_

Closing the door gently behind his retreating ingénue, he could not help but suppress a thunderous roar. He could not help but chastise himself for treating the girl the way he had.

He only knew _too well_ what his pride and arrogance could do...

He had almost lost her that very moment. He had gone too far.

And he knew it.

_It is the **boy's** fault!_

The jealousy growing inside him, so much like a virus, foul and toxic, was worse than any other emotion he had known before. It gnawed inside him like a maggot, eating his insides slowly and torturously. He couldn't stand it.

_He was to blame for his emotions._

The fear and hurt in her eyes was enough to render him senseless. She had, up until now, trusted him. He realized that the shaky, unsteady foundation they had built their relationship upon was slowly crumbling. He wanted nothing more in this world than to fix what had been broken, to repair the ties that were severed.

But the damage was done. It had been too little, too late.

He could remember a voice, thickly accented French, speaking to him in the confines of a Persian palace a number of years ago…

"_Trust is a fine glass of wine. Once it is spilt, not only is the thirst unquenched, but the table cloth is tainted."_

It had been wise advice, yet unhelpful at the time. Was it so coincidental that he once again found himself in such a situation?

_No matter,_ he thought to himself. _All is not lost. _He would simply have to work harder for what he truly wanted. He would have to mend the split ends in the fabric of their bond.

_Christine _will_ trust me again…and once I have gained her trust, I can separate her from her dashing Vicomte._

Time, however, was not on his side.

-'-,-'----

The Opera Ghost, it seemed, was not to be let off the hook that easily.

Madame Giry stormed into the room, tossing aside all decorum as she flung herself into a frenzy.

"What is the meaning of this, Erik?"

Erik looked only slightly taken aback, but his voice showed no evidence of his surprise. "I am afraid I haven't the slightest idea of what you are speaking of, Madame."

"I believe you do, Erik."

Erik sighed impatiently, his voice becoming deeper and darker. "I am in no mood for games."

"In no mood, do you say? Erik, what has gotten into you? You know very well that I stay out of your affairs, but this time I'm afraid I must step in. This is risky business in which you are taking part..."

"I thank you for your concerns, Madame, but I really must be on my way-,"

"Do you not know to whom Christine Daae is _betrothed_, Erik? The Comte de Chagny's younger brother, that's whom. One of the most influential patrons at the Opera. Do not believe for one second that the affairs of his brother's fiancé will not affect business."

"Forgive me for not being too alarmed, but I am far more interested in the _talent_ of the Opera, rather than the investments it retains," he replied coldly.

Madame Giry looked dubious. "Are you attempting to position Mademoiselle Daae as the Prima Donna, Erik? You know this cannot be done, no matter how _persuasive_ you can be. Signora Carlotta is the leading diva, and has been for many seasons."

He scoffed, turning his golden eyes upon her. "Carlotta is a shrieking banshee to those with a poor sense of hearing."

Madame Giry flinched at his crude bluntness. "That is enough, Erik. I will hear no more of your opinions against the singers in this company."

He blinked in response, his dark, long eyelashes just visible through the blankness of his stark white mask.

"As for Miss Daae, well…you must be careful, Erik. Do not let your feelings for her compromise both your situations. She is affianced, and you are a ghost." She said this with no measure of dislike, but rather a worrying sternness that was wholly recognizable to those who knew the ballet instructress well.

"And what would you know my feelings, Madame?" Erik challenged, his unmovable tenacity apparent in his body language.

"More than you know yourself."

-'-,-'----

I'm VERY sorry about not updating sooner! I know, I'm a TERRIBLE person. Throw stones. Rocks. Sporks. I will endure it only to gain your favor and reviews once more. Do not hate me.

I am leaving for Israel on June 4, however, so I shall get in maybe two more updates before then, and then no more updates for a month. Le sigh. I'm so VERY sorry.

**_Please review_**!


	18. I Used To Dream He'd Appear

"_She ceased – and buried then her burning cheek  
__Abash'd amid the lilies there, to seek  
__A shelter from the fervor of His eye;  
__For the stars trembled at the Deity.  
__She stirr'd not – breath'd not – for a voice was there  
__How solemnly pervading the calm air!  
__A sound of silence on the startled ear  
__Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere.""  
__- Al Aaraaf, _**E.A.P.**

)-'-,-'----

A northern wind swept through the grounds of the de Chagny estate, causing the orange and yellow leaves of the birches to sway and fall softly to the lush, emerald floor, right beneath Christine's veranda. The air was no longer warm and dry, but was now becoming more chilly and humid. Fall was slowly settling into France at this time of year, and those who knew well were grabbing at their heavier coats and dreading the inevitable wintry months.

Christine sat upon her divan, the shadows of the firelight dancing across her face as the embers slowly burnt into ash. The house was dark and quiet, matching the aphotic environment outside her bedroom. She had been attempting to practice her scales, as she had not heard from her maestro for three days, and was beginning to worry that something was terribly amiss. Her fears of returning to the Opera so soon forbid her from doing so, leaving her in the darkness of ignorance. She had considered writing a letter to her tutor, in the vain hope that he might receive it without passing through enemy hands, but she had not dared. Thus, the outcome had been a long period of waiting, in which she sang very little, save for the private enjoyment of Raoul after a family dinner around the grand piano.

Tonight, however, he had not requested to hear her sing, as he had accompanied his brother out of town on a business venture, one that Philippe insisted she would not join them on. Although Christine had not learned the intent of the trip, from Raoul's knowledge, it seemed to be a very important expenditure, and was entirely outside a woman's comprehension.

Despite what she thought was her amiable nature, Christine found she liked the Comte de Chagny less and less with each day that passed.

However, to please her fiancé, she had said nothing, agreeing to spend the night alone with no one save Nicole, as the rest of the servants had the night off and were out in the city, most likely spending time in their favorite tavern, sharing stories and delighting in the freedom of neglecting their duties.

Christine heaved of sigh of frustration. It was pointless. She knew very well that she could not continue her tutelage without him, and without his guidance, her voice would only wither away. She felt lost at his apparent abandonment of her, and wondered if the disagreement they had had the previous night had struck a chord so strongly it had a dire lasting effect. Another part of her denied this to be true, so certain she was that he would never desert her. It was almost as if the call of her soul to music had bound the two of them together. If there was any opportunity for abandonment, the time had long since passed.

She was still not pacified, however. Whatever it was that was keeping him away, it had something to do with her, she could feel it.

She just wished he wasn't _so_ mysterious.

)-'-,-'----

It was unusually quiet to Nicole. Though she could admit that she normally preferred the laid-back environment, she often felt haunted. It was far too large a home to be occupied by only two men and a woman, as well as their servants, even if they did have visitors from time to time. Nicole could even hear the sparks flying out of the fires all around the house.

Only the occasional soft tapping of the floor boards indicated that the mademoiselle upstairs was still awake. As much as Christine enjoyed Nicole's company (as she divulged several times during their private talks), the mistress of the house had asked to be left alone in her quarters after dinner, which was quite the solemn affair with no one to join her at the table. Christine had, of course, asked Nicole to sit with her, to which she politely refused. It would not have been proper decorum to reside at a lady's table.

She had been in sitting room for only a few minutes, making occasional and unnecessary improvements to the already flawless room, when one of the doors to the veranda suddenly blew open. Startled, the girl rushed to the doors, closing them with a good amount of effort, the wind blowing particularly fiercely. Looking at her reflection in the polished glass, she was met with a pair of frightened, huge eyes, as well as pale skin that looked eerie against the darkness of the outside world. Closing the latch tightly, Nicole bound the tassel of the curtains and drew them closed. She turned away from the doors, attempting to calm her strained nerves by smoothing out her apron and mopping her brow.

The doors had not been shut properly, that was all.

These words seemed to calm her enough. To distract herself, she began to dust the lampshades that were only specked with the lightest of dust. Yet again, however, her frazzled nerves were undone.

There was a loud knock at the front door.

Nearly dropping a priceless family possession, Nicole's heart froze in her chest, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out across her nose. She could not move a muscle in her body, so great was the fear that gripped her soul. She held her breath, listening intently for a voice, or possibly more than one, to speak out. There was none. Uncertain of what to do, as she was the only servant in the house, Nicole stood where she was, gripping the centuries' old Portuguese vase in her hand.

The banger seemed to be impatient, for the knock came again, louder and more persistent. This time, Nicole hesitantly walked towards the door, taking deep draughts of air to steady her shaking knees. The doorknob seemed entirely too large at that moment, and she was afraid she would be unable to open the door, and that it would be broken down.

She was right in front of the door. It was now or never. She reached out her hand and grasped the doorknob, turning it painfully.

When she caught sight of a dark, tall figure standing in the threshold, she screamed.

)-'-,-'----

Raoul de Chagny was alone. Well, for the moment, at least.

He held great disdain from his elder brother at that very moment, for he was standing in one of the most beautiful libraries he had every encountered, and knew that Christine would of appreciated its vast collection, had she been by his side to witness it.

Philippe, however, did not think she would have.

They arrived not too long ago, and had been received in the home of a country nobleman, one originally from Paris, who so kindly accepted them into their midst, while discussing important issues to be dealt with. Their home had been beautiful, but no area so incredibly as the library in which Raoul stood. The day's meetings had ended, leaving him alone to think about the other day.

They had traveled the previous day for several hours, taking a rather long sojourn at a small log house just outside the recesses of a large forest. Raoul had no inkling of what was to be discussed, but he knew one thing for certain.

He would rather be with Christine at the moment.

Philippe seemed rather distraught when they were accepted at the house, however. The man who met them appeared to be the person they were meeting, and so they adjourned to a living room, apparently the largest room in the shabby, outlandish house. Several stuffed animals heads lined the walls, as well as dark portraits of generals with several silver and gold badges. The man of the house was the most peculiar of all, however. He was a short, portly man with balding, greasy black hair and a slight limp. He didn't say much to either of them, only gesturing for them to sit on a large, cushioned sofa. He clumsily moved about to get them tea, when Philippe interrupted him.

"That is not necessary, Remy. We are only passing through, as we are on a business trip. Might we just discuss what I had previously mentioned when we last met?" Philippe said this rather pointedly, and to Raoul's surprise, rudely. He had not expected his brother, not to mention his guardian, to be so forward when a man was offering him into his home, and without any ill feelings between them. Or so he thought.

"Of course, Monsieur," the man said gruffly, though his voice held no amount of bitterness. It was simply easy compliance and a great willingness to be done with whatever was to take place.

The man reached into his dark, grubby jacket and produced a medium-sized envelope, with no writing on its surface. Raoul tried to get a better view of the manuscript, but was rebuked when Philippe sent him a fiery gaze, simply saying, _This is none of your business. Stay out of it._

Philippe inclined his head politely, though shortly, and delivered the envelope into his own jacket. Standing and shaking the man's hand without a word, Philippe stole away, Raoul quick on his heels.

"What is the meaning of this, Philippe? First you ask me to accompany you on a trip that has little need of my assistance. Then you refuse to allow Christine to come. Now, you are receiving sealed envelopes, from shady characters nonetheless? This is madness, Philippe!"

"It is none of your concern, Raoul. Leave it be, and let us get on with our journey."

Philippe began to enter the carriage, motioning to Bailey to ready the horses. Raoul grabbed his wrist, forcing Philippe to meet his steely gaze. "I want to know the truth, Philippe. You are hiding something from me, I can tell."

Philippe lowered himself from the carriage, forcing Raoul to remove his grip and take a step backwards. Philippe's eyes were hollow and lifeless, yet his tone was condescending and dark.

"Listen to me, Raoul. After the deaths of our parents, I have been the sole guardian over you. So it has been for many years. Now, you are entering into your new role. That of the heir to half the de Chagny estate, as well as that of husband. You have responsibilities that are looming ahead, as well as a title to uphold. You must remember that no matter how powerful you will become, there are still investments to be made. That is precisely what I am doing, Raoul. Investing in our future. Now, I believe I have gained your trust a long time ago. Have I since broke it? No. Well then, I encourage you not to question my authority."

He turned back to the carriage and stepped inside, leaving Raoul with one question answered, yet many still forming in his mind.

)-'-,-'----

It was not two minutes after Christine heard Nicole's startled cry that she had thrown open the doors to her chamber. Only inches from her face was another's, pale, distraught and frightened to death, clutching her apron desperately. She was gasping for breath, her bottle-green eyes dilated and her freckles standing out on her face like the plague.

"Oh, _oh_….Christine, miss, I'm so disturb you, I really _am_…but I've had such a scare! There's someone at the door…_someone_, or some_thing_. He's so dark, miss! Like a specter, or a monster, or a demon! Oh, Christine, who _is_ it?"

_She is raving, the poor thing_, Christine thought silently. _She works so hard_…

But she knew the girl was not lying. She was not seeing things.

So, Erik had finally showed up.

"Nicole, stay in here, I can handle this. Do not fear. I know he maybe seem frightful, but he's really not."

Nicole grabbed Christine's sleeves, tugging at them with desperation. "Don't go down there, Christine! We'll just…we can just stay up here! He'll go away eventually!"

Christine shook her head sadly. "There's no need for that, Nicole. He won't harm us."

When Christine descended the stairs, there was no trace of Erik anywhere. Beginning to feel frightened herself, she slowly approached the sitting room where Nicole had heard the knocking. "Erik, where are you?"

"In here," he said, his voice coming from Philippe's office.

The door was only opened partially, the muffled sounds of papers ruffling signaling his activities. Christine opened the door entirely, noticing Erik's dark form searching through the papers on Philippe's desk.

"What are you doing here?" she asked curiously.

"Do you mean in this room alone or in the general area in which you reside?"

"Both, if you don't mind," she said with a smile revealing her amusement.

"The simpler question first, then," he said, turning about to face her fully, the moonlight catching on his mask and making the light in his eyes dance. "I had promised that I would be in contact."

"At midnight, Erik?"

"Did you have other engagements?"

She shook her head, his presumptuous nature endlessly amazing her.

"As for the former, I was merely curious about the dealings your brother-in-law is conducting concerning the Opera."

"He is not my brother-in-law yet," she reminded him, though she felt it was in vain.

He ignored her, turning back to the papers and glancing over them fleetingly.

"Not to point out the obvious," she said daringly, closing in on him, "but I believe Philippe would not appreciate that a stranger is studying his very private documents."

"Private, are they? If they were, would he not lock them away safely, so that prying eyes might not venture to glance at them?"

She came very close to him then, closer than she would dare at any other moment, and snatched the papers from his hand. "Please don't make me escort you out, Erik."

He came even closer to her, his breath warm on her face, his voice causing her knees to wobble. He slid his fingertips down her arm slowly, locking her eyes with his, reaching for the documents within her hand and grasping them gently, causing her to lend them to him without effort. She gasped inaudibly, staring at him in wonder.

"You would not do that, would you Christine? After all, I had come here to apologize."

"For what?" she whispered, her hand flying to her throat unconsciously.

He moved away from her, making her tense body loosen. "I did not mean to insult you, Christine. It was certainly not my intention, nor would it ever be, to hurt you as I know I must have. For that, I am eternally sorry."

The eloquence with which he spoke, his voice as smooth and rich as velvet, was enough to make her forgive him for murder, she was sure of it. She shook her head. "It was nothing."

"But it was," he said promptly, returning to her side. She did not look at him, but merely felt his presence near her. "You must know that I will never hurt you. Behind this visage, Christine, there is only a man. A man who only cares for you, and for nothing else. I place your well being before all other matters."

She said nothing, the distant sounds of the wind blowing against the window hardly comparing to the extreme beating of her own heart.

He placed in front of her something entirely unexpected, something more profoundly beautiful than anything she had ever seen before.

A long-stemmed red rose, accompanied by a black lace ribbon about its body.

"In exchange for your forgiveness, as well as a lesson, if you so wish it."

)-'-,-'----

How did you like this chapter? Did I go about it well? Is it too little or too much? Please let me know!

This is what watching Beauty and the Beast and reading V for Vendetta does to you. My Muse is back, and she is more beautiful than ever.

Please review!


	19. Take Your Heart Back And Be Free

**_"Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away  
The night that waned and waned and brought no day  
The fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts  
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts."  
- Al Aaraaf,_ E.A.P.**

-'-,-'----

Christine was finally able to lead Erik away from Philippe's private domain, drawing him to the music room. She locked the office door behind her, glancing up at Erik's wandering gaze as he slowly made his way down the hall.

"Your maid is a superstitious creature, is she not?" Erik asked, walking behind Christine as they made their way up the stairs.

"I did not think she would scream like that…forgive me."

"I've become accustomed to it, Christine. She should be more careful when characters visit in the evening, however." He paused, seeming contemplative. "Are the two of you alone this evening?"

"Yes. Raoul and Philippe are out of town."

"And the reason you are not with them?"

Christine averted his eyes. "Philippe did not think it appropriate, I suppose."

"Ah," was all he said before they entered their destination. The music room was entirely dark, save for a single candle, burning independently. Christine brought the flame to the gas lamps, revealing the uninhibited room. The sheet music to _Le Prophete _lay on the music stand, as if expecting their arrival.

"I see you have been practicing," he commented thoughtfully.

"Without much success, I'm afraid."

"I'll be the determining factor of that," he replied shortly. Instead of moving towards the piano, however, his attention fell on the bookshelves bordering the room. Each was stacked tightly with numerous volumes, each properly placed and tidy, yet seemingly untouched for many years. Christine watched as Erik duly noted each collection, taking time to run a longing finger along each worn spine, eyeing pieces by those such as Medee, Purcell, Demophon, and Lodioska. After a few moments of silent admiration, he turned his focus back to the present, striding towards the grand instrument.

"Have you taken to studying any of these works, Christine?"

"I'm afraid to say I haven't," she answered quietly.

His golden eyes met hers for an instance, then turned away indifferently, as if disappointed. "_Le Prophete _is a fine piece, Christine, but there are operas out there that are worth discovering. Many are not as fortunate as you to have such diverse resources at your fingertips. It would be a pity to not, at least, glance over them and take the time to extend your musical knowledge."

She merely nodded her head, a child being lectured by her teacher who thought lowly of her disinterest in learning.

He sat at the piano, taking off his black cloak and setting it on the seat beside him. His gloves, however, remained on his hands. He played a simple melody, checking the performance of the instrument, before coaxing the instrument, rather than his own fingers, into playing a concerto of such gentle, rhythmic precision that it was incomprehensible to her that he could play without reading sheet music. It did not come from _Le Prophete_ at all, but seemed to materialize from out of his very hands, magically. The music slowly transformed into a sonata, smooth and lively, so beautifully orchestrated that Christine felt her own feet began to tingle with anxiousness. Then, suddenly, the music changed drastically. It was no longer bright and happy, but transformed into a sinister, almost dark music, so much so that it swathed a heavy curtain over the atmosphere, so palpable that it caused a great disturbance in Christine's own senses. Yet as soon as it came, it was gone, and the air once more changed into the calm, comfortable atmosphere she had originally found the room to be in. It was as if nothing had occurred, and that the memory of the dark music was but a dream.

Erik ended his song, staring at the pristine keys silently.

"Did you write that?"

He looked past her, as if remembering where he was, yet thinking back on another time. "I sectioned portions of many compositions I have written and entwined them in a shortened version. I have written several pieces over the years."

"I should like to see them some day," she replied.

He glanced up at her, a pleased look about his lips. "As would I." He motioned for her to join him by the piano, drawing her closer to the music and himself. Christine stared in wonder at his hands, so incredibly powerful and skilled that he could use them so masterfully to his will, whether to mandate music into perfection or bring her so effortlessly to his side.

Christine nervously bit her lip, afraid of what she was doing. It had occurred to her briefly that what she was doing was dangerous when she left Nicole alone in her room, and that being alone with a man, despite the fact that he was her teacher, was incredibly inappropriate, particularly because they were in the privacy of her home, without the regards and presence of her fiancé. As she walked towards the man who claimed to be her maestro, she felt oddly torn. Here she was, standing in the music room in the middle of the night, with a frightened maid upstairs and no one else to help her should she need assistance. She trusted Erik, despite the strange circumstances they were in. However, she did not trust herself, and did not trust her own judgment at the moment, as well as his. The combination of his music, himself, and the mixed emotions she was feeling, were enough to put the both of them in a compromised position.

Before she could say anything, however, Erik spoke first. "Is something the matter, Christine?"

_He knows. _Christine swallowed her fear, turning away from all doubts she had before. "No."

Erik did not look satisfied, yet said nothing more. As they descended into their lesson, however, Christine felt more and more unsettled, and took to entwining her fingers in her dress lacings. Erik stopped playing and looked up, wearing a worn, yet patient posture. Christine had learned from their previous lessons to read his body language and his voice, rather than the blankness of his mask, to aid her in what he was thinking.

"Christine?"

She looked down at him, a rosy blush creeping from the base of her neck up her throat. "Yes?"

"You are distracted, my dear."

She was about to retort, but thought the better of it. _No use in fighting a losing battle, right? _Instead, she hung her head in embarrassment, trying in vain to think of a way to properly voice her thoughts without seeming either too weak or too brash.

"I don't feel comfortable sneaking around behind Raoul's back."

_There, it was out. _

He tilted his head, the glint of his golden eyes reflecting the candlelight. "Is that all?" he replied.

Christine nodded, feeling more confident with his acceptance.

Yet, in his voice, there was a certain sadness - as well as silent anger - as if he sensed he was being rejected. Instead of pacifying Christine's discomfort, it only added to it. What was it about this man that made her feel so inadequate?

"You had only to say it in the first place." He stood suddenly, his tall, lithe form seeming too large for the room. Far too large. He grabbed his cloak, replacing it hastily around his neck, and met her eyes with a glaring intensity that made Christine shrink back involuntarily. "Forgive my extraordinarily presumptuous nature, my dear. It seems that it often _slithers_ out of my control." The words spit like venom from his lips, cruelly intentional. He turned away, breaking away from her confused and distraught gaze and heading towards the door.

Christine hurried after him, her mind connecting with her body to take action. She sprung herself onto his sleeve, stopping him from moving another foot.

"Erik, stop this! You misunderstand me. It's not that I feel guilty about you, or singing for you. It's that I feel guilty _here_. At this _moment_. Being alone with you."

"We are usually alone during lessons, Christine. Or did you simply leave out that minor aspect with your _fiancé_? Did you lead him to believe that your lessons were chaperoned? If so, I believe we may have a slight dilemma." His words were cold, as was his demeanor as he spoke them.

She ignored them as best she could, as much as they hurt. "What do you _expect_ from me, Erik? I cannot be as independent as you _think_ I can be!"

"Why not?" he spat back. "Were you not planning to join the chorus at the theatre after the death of your father? Was it not your idea to become a great singer, to rise above the normalcy of women in society? Was it not your dream, Christine? Inform me if I am mistaken, I _beg_ of you."

Christine felt angry, hot tears begin to well in her eyes. "You don't know anything about me," she replied quietly.

"Don't I?" His voice became lower, harder and deeper as his voice descended into another level of anger. "You don't want this, Christine. You don't _want_ to be them, to be like those women you associate with at salons and such. You don't want to simper and giggle flirtatiously at your young man's witty comments, or simply sit quietly while he converses with another man. You want to speak your mind, pour your soul into every day you live. You want to feel alive, and express your needs and desires freely." He took a step closer to her, his darkness overwhelming her senses. "Now, tell me I do not understand everything about you."

She glared at him through narrowed eyes, too bitter and upset to reply. He removed her hand from his sleeve, backing away from her slowly. "Tell me, Christine. Is it because you are frightened of me that you push me away, or do you push me away because you are frightened?"

She said nothing still, only answering him with her indecisiveness.

"You will come to me when you are ready to come to terms with what you want. As for what I want, Christine…I have just told you." He bowed his head to her, escaping from her presence like the ghost she believed him to be, leaving only the sound of burning wicks as her grief-filled lament.

-'-,-'----

Let me begin by saying I'm so sorry I updated so late...again. I was out of the country and could not post this chapter until I was comfortable with it. Now that it is out of the way, I shall update more frequently. Do believe me.

As always, please review!


	20. In An Inhuman Race

"_Yet _more_ than worthy of the love  
__My spirit struggled with, and strove,  
__When, on the mountain peak, alone,  
__Ambition lent it a new tone-  
__I had no being, but in thee:  
__The world, and all it did contain  
__In the earth – the air – the sea –  
__Its joy – its little lot of pain."  
_"**Tamberlane", E.A.P.**

)-'-,-'----

The homecoming of the Count and his younger brother was met with dazzling enthusiasm – especially from a lonely and desolate Christine. She had marked the days in her mind that she had been away from Raoul, and also, without her intention, the days she had not seen Erik. It seemed as if whenever she was with one or the other, she could not help but compare the two in her mind, as if they belonged to separate lives she led. She noticed a distinct difference between them, however, when Raoul swept through the doorway and gathered her in his arms; Raoul thrived in the lightness that was their relationship, and Erik brooded in the darkness, awaiting Christine's plummet into his aphotic world.

He was fresh-faced and eager to be with her, a great change from the detached and cool air of her tutor. Raoul had emerged immediately into an energized conversation, relating in full detail their trip, how much he wished he had taken her with them, and how long until they were wed. It was as if he were merely a boy eager to please his childhood sweetheart, rather than a man about to wed the love of his life. As the wedding arrangements began to stream from his lips, Christine's focus began to slide as her worries grew.

_The wedding, of course…I had not even thought of being married these last few weeks…_

"…but if Little Lotte does not listen to the fine details, I'm afraid she will be rather confused when the day arrives."

Christine turned her glassy eyes to him sheepishly, feeling a warm blush creep into her cheeks. "Forgive me, Raoul. My mind has been on other things lately." She immediately bit her tongue, not meaning to form the sentence as she had.

"Oh…like what?" Christine wouldn't let herself mistake the hurt look on his face, despite his curious tone.

"What I mean to say is that I hadn't thought about the actual _event_. I'm terribly anxious about it." She breathed a sigh of relief as his painful expression vanished, surprised by her newly-developed deceitfulness.

"I promise you this, Christine, as I promise you my undying love and devotion for all our lives…our wedding shall be the wedding of our dreams, and nothing will stand in our way to happiness." He smiled in reprieve, taking her hands in his and kissing each tenderly.

_Yes, _she thought wretchedly, _but shall it be the wedding of _both _of our dreams, Raoul, or just your brother's?_

She managed a small smile, squeezing Raoul's hand as it grasped hers.

"Anyways, it shall be Philippe and my sisters who arrange the entire wedding. After that, it shall be just you and I, making a home for ourselves."

Christine smiled wryly, questioning his motives. "Oh? And where shall this 'home for ourselves' be, Raoul?"

"Truthfully, I thought of northern France, most preferably London…"

Christine breath caught in her throat. _Leave_ Paris? _For good_? A sickening feeling arose in her stomach, and she suddenly felt more apprehensive than she had before.

"Christine? Is something wrong?"

She swallowed the rising bile in her throat, attempting to compose herself before she overreacted. "Nothing is wrong, dear. It is simply a pain I feel in my stomach."

"Let me help you to your room, then," he said, rising out of his seat and wrapping his arm around her middle to help her to her room.

_More lies, _she thought miserably, watching his departing form as he left her alone, clutching the heavy silk sheets of her comforter. She threw herself face-forward in a pillow, suppressing a moan of anguish. _There's so much I'm keeping from him. I don't deserve his trust..._

And yet…there was something beneath the glittering, boyish delight in his eyes, something that had steadily been building there, but never mentioned. Was it possible that he was hiding something as well?

)-'-,-'----

"It's good to be home, is it not Raoul? A man is king in his home, and yet everywhere else he is just the same as the common man, no matter his station." Philippe leaned back in his office chair, looking rather pleased with himself, so much so that it was rather unnerving to his younger sibling, who happened to be leaning his fist against the mantelpiece.

"Yes, I suppose it does. I feel that the most when I am in Christine's presence. When I am without her, I am no longer myself." Raoul focused his attention on nothing in particular, remembering Christine's reaction to his proposal for their residence just a few days ago. The way her eyes widened so innocently and her mouth formed a small circle in surprise tugged at his heart. She looked so lost, so scared. What was it that she was so afraid of?

"Ah," Philippe said curtly. He leaned forward into his desk, studying his brother's face, his furrowed brow evidence to his inner turmoil. "She is acting rather strangely, wouldn't you say?"

Raoul's head turned sharply. "What do you mean?"

Philippe held up his hands, palms open in his defense. "I am simply referring to the fact that she seems a bit distressed lately."

Raoul's initial indignation simmered, leaving way to confused dejection. "She's nervous about the wedding. It is, after all, approaching quickly…." Raoul moved away from the fireplace, coming closer to his brother's desk. "And yet…there is something else. Something she is not telling me. I can feel it." Raoul's eyes met his brother's, pleading and despondent. "You don't think there's someone else, do you?"

Philippe expression turned hard, his lips pressed together in what could only be agitation. Or was it in interest? "Raoul, you know Christine as well as I. She would never, and I mean _never_ dishonor you, or our good name, for that manner, by being unfaithful. She is as pure as the day is long, and as good as a saint. To suggest such a thing is disgraceful, and you should know better."

Raoul sighed heavily, rubbing his hand across his forehead roughly. "I know, Philippe, believe me, I know. She has been the best friend I have ever had, and the only woman I have ever loved."

Philippe raised an eyebrow, his attention sparked. "The only woman, Raoul? Are you so sure of –,"

"That was a very long time ago, Philippe, and nothing has changed since then. I have loved Christine through the years, even during the times when we were apart. My devotion to her has never swayed." He looked into the burning embers, momentarily fascinated by the shapes he saw there. "She never betrayed me," he added softly. Raoul looked at his brother squarely, his hands now hanging loosely at his sides.

"If I recall correctly," Philippe continued, as if Raoul had never had any outburst, "_you_ were the one who broke the engagement with Sorrel."

"Only after she told me she could never be true to me," Raoul answered bitterly, attempting to keep his normally calm temper in full.

"Ah, but you never trusted her to begin with, did you, Raoul? You were too suspicious of her to put your heart on the line." His expression turned to that of smugness. "But you did nevertheless, did you not?"

Raoul looked away, disgusted with his brother for mentioning such anguish. More so with himself, however, for putting himself in that situation. "Perhaps for a short time, but I soon saw through her conniving ways."

Philippe said nothing for a while, then stood and looked out the window, his tone thoughtful and quiet. "Ah, Raoul," he said soothingly, making out his reflexion in the dying daylight, frowning at the way his younger brother spoke. He paused for a few moments before speaking again. "She regrets what happened, you know."

Raoul did not look in his direction. "It doesn't matter. It's fate that Christine and I were joined again. We were meant to be together," he said pointedly.

As he began to walk away, his brother turned back to him quickly - almost desperately, Raoul thought for but a moment - his voice calling out to him before he left. "And if you hadn't been reunited with Christine? Would you reconsider her?"

Raoul turned slightly, his eyes hollow. "If I hadn't been reunited with Christine, then everything would have been different. I would be different. Who's to say my choices wouldn't be as well?" Raoul left sullenly, unaware of the hope that sparkled in the gleaming, yet pathetic eyes of his keeper.

)-'-,-'----

His words burned holes inside her head as they repeated themselves over and over, days after their last discourse.

"_You will come to me when you are ready to come to terms with what you want…_"

What _did_ she want? She _knew_ exactly what she wanted, she told herself. To not be alone anymore. To be happy once again. To be loved and protected once again.

But did that include singing?

It had always been her passion, her gift, her gateway to other worlds in which she floated on the wings of made-believe creatures, where she could spend all day listening to her father tell her stories about the Angel of Music and Little Lotte and listen to him playing the violin. She would imagine herself being amongst the strings of his violin as he played, dancing around her in little red shoes, clapping and smiling and playing until she could no longer stand the sweet sounds of the strings. She would escape to far-off lands, climb over mountains made of sunshine and swim in waters that tasted like sweetness in liquid form. Singing had let her escape to a world of joy, of dreams, of sweet, divine music.

In the past few months, however, she had forgotten what that world had felt like, had lost the taste of music on her tongue, falling short of silence in the swift, painful agony that was mourning. She mourned the loss of her voice more than any fairytale, more than she could explain, even to herself.

Now that she was singing again, it was as if her soul were reborn into a beautiful and magical place that was so foreign, yet so familiar. She couldn't help but caress the notes on the rough parchment that was the score she practiced, or brush her fingertips along the keys as she imagined Erik's long, graceful hands speeding over them like lightning, swift and unyielding.

She lived inside her voice, and it lived inside her.

"_Now, tell me I do not understand everything about you."_

He understood completely, as much as she denied it herself. He _knew_ her. And how could he not, with his deep, penetrating eyes that seemed to scorch your very soul with a single look? As much as she detested the feeling, he owned a small piece her soul, for her soul was overtaken by music, and that's what he was. He _was_ music, in every sense of the word.

It was too late now to turn back, she realized. To give up and focus on nothing but her happiness with Raoul, the contentment and comfort of his arms, would be unfulfilling, as much as it would be perfect bliss. He recognized the manqué quality in her, the unrealized potential that lay within her, so deeply buried by grief that it refused to be dug up. He would grow impatient, he would be frustrated and condescending, but he refused to give up on her. He believed she had a great talent and was unwilling to let her ignore it.

"_As for what I want, Christine…I have just told you."_

He hadn't, and yet he had. Was she so blind as to not see what he was implying? He didn't want her to be with Raoul. It was as simple as that. She could tell from the way his eyes darkened when she mentioned him. His illusive behavior of being concerned about her being distracted was not a façade he could continue using. It wasn't anger, exactly, but it was something fierce, and frightening. Something she tried hard to avoid when she could. But it was that dark emotion that he used on her, and she could not stop him from attaining it. He didn't want her to be a Vicomtess. After all, a Vicomtess couldn't sing at the Opera!

Or could she?

Maybe she didn't have to make a choice, after all.

But she _did_ have to return to him.

Otherwise, she did not think she could marry Raoul.

)-'-,-'----

"Any progression, my dear Comte?" she drawled in her utter irresistibility. Her influence over men was uncanny, to be true, but it was her incredible ability to con so viciously that bewildered him the most. If it weren't for his overly stubborn nature and matching talent in influencing others to get his way, Philippe would have undoubtedly been overtaken by the seducing powers of his brother's former, cast-aside fiancé.

"Progression in which direction, might I ask?" he replied lightly.

"You know very well in which direction, Philippe!" Her outburst was short, passionate, and deadly, but it was quiet, a moment of pure anger and frustration that reminded Philippe of a snake's lethal attack. She cleared her throat delicately, wrapping long, piercing fingernails over the top of Philippe's desk as she stared boldly into his face, her eyes gleaming and her red, sultry lips set in a thin line of determination. Her lovely skin glowed iridescent in the moonlight, setting off an air of other-worldly-ness. Of divinity. Of fiendishness.

Philippe couldn't help but, for a moment, admire her determination. It was quite rare in a woman, even if she was of noble class.

"I but beg that you be in command of yourself, Madame, and remember that you are a _guest_ in my home. Notwithstanding - I _deplore_ to even go as far as to mention – that you are at the mercy of my compassion, and that without my help you would surely fail at your task." He couldn't help but allow himself a small smile of satisfaction at seeing the attractive woman before him bristle with annoyance. She did look so _endearing_ when she was upset…

"Forgive me, Monsieur, I did not mean to show any lack of _appreciation_ at what you have accomplished so far. It is only that our opportunities are quickly passing us by and our time to act is fleeting." She meant to flatter him as best she could, knowing that she could no longer demand so much from her benefactor when she was, indeed, at his mercy. Considering what each partner would retain from their agreement, at times it seemed that she was the one who had the better deal. And why shouldn't she? Hadn't she waited long enough, abided her time like a good little girl? Now _that_ was a thought. A proper young lady of society, still unmarried and of a decreasing reputation. Her only hope lay solely in the man before her.

"Yes, I am aware of that, Sorrel. I happen to know that Christine is troubled, and I have an excellent idea as to why."

Sorrel grinned wickedly, showing perfect rows of small, white teeth. "The music instructor," she said with a low, guttural sigh of delight.

He nodded in assent. "Indeed. I believe we have an opportunity before us. Raoul mentioned that he fears Christine's faithfulness. All we have to do is set certain events in motion that will lead Raoul to believe she is in love with her voice instructor."

Sorrel's lips turned upwards slowly, her lips meeting in what was a smile of pure pleasure. "Well, Monsieur de Chagny," she breathed, her eyes dancing in the moonlight as a cloud slowly passed over the moon, "I believe we may have ensnared our guiltless friend."

)-'-,-'----

Do you hate me? Surely you do. After so long and without an update. Okay, so this is it: I make no more promises I cannot keep. I say this. I update when I can. If it is not soon, then I would thank you a million times over for reviewing, even if you are not pleased. I would like to thank ALL of you for your support up until now. The good stuff is about to begin, to hang on to your favorites!


	21. The Answer Is Staring Us In The Face

"_How dare a woe! Yet how sublime a hope!  
__How silently serene a sea of pride!  
__How daring an ambition! yet how deep-  
__How fathomless a capacity for love!"  
_"**To Helen" – E.A.P.**

',)-'-,-'----

"Are you sure about going back there, Christine? From what you have told me, I cannot help but worry about your security."

Raoul held Christine's arm as they stepped into the feeble daylight, preparing to leave the manor in haste to make to the Opera. It was early in the morning, but Christine still wanted to arrive when Erik would be there. She did not know of his hours, but she had an intuitive feeling that he would be there today, and at this very moment. Possibly, she thought optimistically, awaiting her arrival.

_It is a fool's errand_, she thought to herself. _He is probably disgusted with me and even remorseful that he wasted hours on a silly girl who isn't even committed to his art_.

She had told Raoul everything the night before, feeling the burden on her conscience was much too heavy to carry. It felt good to unload her thoughts and worries, but, at the same time, had not discharged all her qualms. She did not tell Raoul certain things, such as Erik trifling through his brother's office, the fact that she had imparted on Erik that she was being watched, nor, for that matter, the strange authority he seemed to have over her.

No, Raoul could never know about _that_.

"I'm certain, Raoul. The other night was…odd. I believe he was just in a foul mood," she said lightly, more to comfort herself than him.

Christine felt differently, however. Deep inside of her, she had known all along the type of person Erik was. She had wanted to see only the normal aspect to everything, the simple, safe reasoning she had used her entire life, to be used in this occurrence as well. When he came to the estate, so late in the night and resembling something out of a delusion, she could not commit herself to saying she had been surprised. To the contrary, she had almost _expected_ him to pull off such a feat. Wasn't it he who had hidden his face from her for so long, anyways?

"Besides," she added confidently, even as her heart began to lurch as the carriage took off, "wasn't it you who had mentioned that you were obligated to talk to the managers about the patronage for the season? Philippe said he would be busy for the next several days and could not speak with them."

Raoul nodded, his expression grim. "Yes," he sighed in resignation, "I did say that."

"Well, then, I am simply coming along to run an errand, nothing more. If I happen to see him, the trip wouldn't have been for naught." Christine patted his hand fondly, berating herself for stepping into the brougham in the first place, much less _mentioning_ her aim to him beforehand. He didn't say anything, only looked somewhat, if not entirely, reassured by her simple gesture of affection.

She looked out the window, lost deeply in thought, gripping the edge of her skirt with one hand, her other hand grasping a fading scarlet rose that a certain masked man had presented her with in an effort to appease her.

She pursed her lips, shutting her eyes from the Autumn-affected land before her until they arrived at the Opera House.

,')-'-,-'----

Christine had parted from Raoul at the stage, traveling in the direction that would lead her, if not directly to him, then perhaps to any evidence of where he might be.

The Opera was bustling with morning activity, making it quite easy to become unnoticed in the small universe that took place in the immense building. She passed several unfamiliar and few familiar faces, such as that of Meg and Madame Giry, who were, unaware of her presence, readying themselves for rehearsals. Christine sighed to herself, watching in wonder as she passed the life she could have had, the _almost_.

Before she was aware of her surroundings, she found herself alone in the darkened corridor she knew so well, staring at the door of the room that many in the Opera knew to be haunted. Abandoned as it was, the room never seemed to be empty, for his presence always bled through the walls, his unseen eyes boring into the nape of your neck as you stood, undaunting, before his unseen presence. Her hand shook, despite herself, as she grasped the handle of the door and pushed, silently, holding her breath all the while.

Inside the room it was inky black, no light penetrating through, save the weak light of the gas lamps in the corridor. Christine looked around carefully, feeling a dreading sense of loneliness creep into her. Each piece of furniture was coated in a thin layer of dust, harshly neglected in their haunted state. Even the mirror, the most ominous figure in the room, had a very grimy look to it, as if it stood centuries without use or care.

In an effort to lighten the room more, Christine opened one of the drawers to the vanity in search of more candles, only to find a note, sealed in a glossy red stamp, sitting upon the surface of the vanity. Looking around in sudden shock, Christine carefully lifted the note and opened the letter, taking care not to rip the parchment written in blood-like ink.

_You have opened this note, I presume, in the hope that you may find some indication as to my whereabouts._

_Do not attempt to find me within the Opera, my dear, for you shall not. However, as you have opened this letter, I shall know, for you shall leave this note, unsealed, on the floor by the mirror. That is, of course, if you wish me to believe you have returned to resume your lessons. However, if you do not wish me to know of your return, I shall not know if you reseal this letter and leave it on the vanity, as it were. _

_Choose wisely, my dear, and let nothing dissuade your wishes._

There was no signature or postscript, very much like there usually wasn't, giving Christine the customary notion that he wrote his letters to her in little to no hope that she would find it.

Then why had he taken the time to write it? Did he believe, even in the smallest measurement, that she would come back, as if nothing had passed between them? Albeit, it was true, she wasn't about to drop everything she had gained to run off to be a prima donna, but she wasn't one to give in, either. The way they had last spoken to each other had been less than civil, but Christine was willing to, if not forget passed happenings, at least call a draw so that they may be able to overcome their obstacle, which seemed to repeat every time they met: some disdain he held against Christine's reluctance to be isolated, and some anger she felt against his dark, brooding behavior when she tried to get close.

However, no matter where they stood, it seemed as if both had the same ill-conceived stubbornness that did not allow the other to gain the upper hand. It had been as it always was: a mind game, where neither was willing to let the other surpass them.

She felt a spark of revolt well up inside her for his streak of presumptuousness that never dissipated, daring herself to further anger him by ripping the note to shreds, or simply dropping it on the floor, no where near the mirror. She immediately dashed the impulse, feeling guilty over doing so cruel a thing as destroying his innocuous message.

What was she to do, then? She had come when she could have stayed very well away, and she opened the letter, despite what any lucid and resolute woman of her position would do. She knew, of course, what she _wanted_ to do. Did _wanting_ something, on the other hand, make it right? Would it be betrayal to anyone, if not herself, by resealing the envelope and leaving it where she found it?

She was tired of feeling held back, of feeling intimidated by those who held themselves to higher expectations than they had for her. She was just as capable as anyone of fulfilling her dream, even if it was a bit out-of-the-ordinary. She wasn't turning back now. She had come all this way, hadn't she?

Giving the note a final look-over, she cautiously made her way over to the mirror, feeling her way over, and bent over to place note on the ground. She spent only a moment reflecting as to why he chose the location, but decided that it would not matter later on. She peered around the room in the semi-darkness, listened carefully to the silence, but heard nothing, save for the sigh of the single burning flame. Wait, sigh? Did candles sigh so beautifully?

She took the sound to be the imaginings of a wandering soul. The task was done.

It was time to find Raoul and leave before she stopped and listened for more sighs.

,')-'-,-'----

He had watched her the entire time, of course.

He had been making his daily inspections of rehearsals when he saw the young Vicomte, floating around the stage as if he belonged there. _Foolhardy boy_, he thought bitterly, _you don't deserve to have her, let alone walk upon the stage she will someday grace with her voice._

A sudden thought sprang to his mind, a selfish hope that he couldn't help but hold on to.

_Was she here_?

It was not seconds after he assumed his position behind the mirror did she arrive, looking lovelier than ever. Her willowy figure was silhouetted against the dim light from the corridor, giving her fair skin and dark curls an almost _dark_ look. _Nothing about her is of an evil pretense. She is of the light, a herald of goodness. _He chided himself for desiring her to be anything else.

He felt her presence within only a few feet, wishing to be the hand to guide her to the note. She had found it, of course, as he only knew she would. Oh yes, he had known she would come. It was only because he held something over her that he knew she couldn't resist. He had seen it in her eyes the first day they met.

_Curiosity._

It burned within her soul, and he saw it there, through her eyes, even now. She had wanted to find him, and what had she found? Another _note_? He shook his head sardonically, wondering, not dismally, at why she still continued on.

He saw the indecision in her lovely face, and his blood froze. _Even after everything that has happened, after coming all this way, she is still not sure? _He blamed the boy for it. _Of course it is not **her** fault. She simply doesn't want to be tossed aside by her precious boy… a slave to society's dictations! If the boy **ever** found within himself to commit the deed of tossing her aside, however, he would be sadly dismayed to find his handsome head inside a noose…_

He hadn't been aware of it, but he had been holding his breath the entire moment, awaiting her decision – so simple a decision! – that seemed to determine his very fate. He released the breath achingly restricted inside his chest, basking in the moment that was his short salvation. He cursed himself almost immediately when she turned in surprise, knowing that he had made too loud a sound. He was pleased, nonetheless. How could he not be? The very effect of his voice on her, merely a sigh, was enough to give him the hope he needed to win her over.

Yes, there was _indeed_ still hope of her favor towards him.

What he did not know, however, was that something was about to happen that would change whatever scheme he might have devised.

,')-'-,-'----

He had been sitting in his office, contemplating his next move on the project he and Sorrel had been planning, when a sudden, unexpected recollection clutched at his consciousness.

Something was missing from his desk.

_Where were the papers showing proof to his ownership of Box 5?_

The night after the performance of _Le Prophete_ that he, Raoul and Christine had attended, Philippe had seen to it that they would never be without their own box. As if that were very well and fine! _Imagine_, the heirs to the de Chagny estate, not even attending the very performances they were spending their money on, together being known as one of the largest supporters of the arts! It was simply **shameful**.

That's why Philippe had gone through such long measures as to persuade the managers to overturn the mysterious person's occupation of the box every opening performance.

Yet, something did not seem right. He had not attended the Opera as of late – he was much too occupied, was he not? – yet something _did_ seem amiss. Scanning over all recent paperwork recently passed through his hands, he noticed that the papers were gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

Like a ghost.

_A ghost_…

No, he told himself. It was not possible. There was no such things as ghosts, much less ghosts that haunted Opera Houses and meandered their way into someone's private study, snatching away papers that were, despite the meaning of its documentation, quite invaluable, compared to all the other riches found inside the home.

**Then where had it disappeared to?**

He knew very well that he was the only one with the key to the office, and he made sure to lock it each and every time he had left the house.

Well, _almost_ every time.

He still tortured himself for the leaving the door unlocked when he went away with Raoul merely a handful of nights ago, fearing that the invaluable documents on his desk would surely be seen by fraudulent eyes. But who was there that would be interested in such insignificant paperwork? Certainly not Christine, bless her unknowing soul. Nor any of the other servants. They were far too ignorant as to Philippe's secret doings. Not to mention that it would be their posts for such prying.

There was only _one_ person who came to mind that might have stolen anything.

And from what he had heard, this person was very ghost-like himself.

_If Christine's music tutor did indeed steal the paperwork to Box 5, that can only mean…_

Philippe's jaw dropped, as did the glass of port he had been holding, crashing onto the floor in a hiss of splashing liquid and the tinkling sound of shattering crystal.

The terror he immediately felt was only followed moments later by immoral, deplorable thrill, which he recognized and swallowed bitterly for the poison that it was.

This, while unexpected and quite possibly dangerous, not only to Christine, but to Raoul as well, was much more suitable than anything they had previously intended.

The only person he needed to tell of his newfound discovery, other than Sorrel, was Raoul. And he would waste no time in telling him, as soon as things were set in motion.

Yes, this would work out quite splendidly.

He did not, however, consider the consequences of his actions.

,')-'-,-'----

Wow, two updates in one week! That's pretty awesome, if I do say so myself.

Well, all I have to say is that the climax is upon us! Well…more like the events leading up to the climax, but it's going to get good! I promise! I've been waiting to write this part of the story for a long time! So stick around and remember…update!


	22. All Must Pay Homage

"My destiny prevailed. I entered the ominous archway. Where was my guardian angel? – if indeed such angels there be. _If!_ Distressing monosyllable! what a world of mystery, and meaning, and doubt, and uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters!"

- **"A Predicament" – E.A.P.**

,')-'-,-'----

The weak autumn sun shone down like a thick, syrupy blanket upon the city, setting the populace into a light, intoxicated state, in which mood they hardly recognized anything to be what it was. Although the cooler climate and soft, feathery winds sent omens of the long, stormy winter ahead, the cooler temperature combined with the warmth of the new day brought a wave of good spirits to the streets.

Even _he_ felt the contagious pleasantness of the day, despite the nature of his presence there. He felt strangely ordinary sitting in his brougham, wearing his warm, clean-cut attire with his hat placed neatly atop his head, his horses' reins held loosely but firmly in his gloved, coachman's hands. His eyes swept over the street, never missing a single step someone took or a glance they gave, but to the average observer he was merely a driver, an everyday businessman whose dealing was no more than looking for the day's customers.

It was a bittersweet thing, the feeling he had, knowing perfectly well how very different he was from the other drivers on the street. Beneath his friendly exterior was a man of anonymity, a shady figure whose breath was made of secrets and whose glances were filled with shadows. He knew no life but the one he lived, and had lived no other life than the one he knew. His eyes, however brightly hazel in the morning, were hard as glittering steel when night fell, and his lips, however kindly they smiled, could not quite make that smile reach his eyes.

So far his cover, one of the many he used, had served him well. Over the many weeks he had been watching her, she had never noticed him. Not once. The job of playing inconspicuous could not have been easier, for the girl hardly seemed to notice anything, so immersed was she in her own world. It made him wonder, not fleetingly, as to why such an unsuspecting, dreary girl would be so threatening to such high-standing members of society. Not that he was complaining, as such. The job paid very well. Or, at least, it was _supposed_ to be paying well. He had yet to receive any sort of commission at all for his efforts, but he was not worried. His mistress was, after all, of the de Douay legacy, one of the most well-known names in the closely-knit circles of the social order. He did not doubt he would be paid handsomely once he was no longer needed to play 'undercover agent'.

Yet he could not help from wondering. _Why her_? The sort of characters he usually followed were cheating husbands, unfaithful lovers, corrupt lawyers, but never orphans of his mistress' acquaintance, with whose mention a particularly sinister look came about her eyes. He knew very little of the situation at hand, save from what she had told him that night in the woods. All he knew was that the girl was to be followed wherever she went, which was usually only to the Opera Garnier. The girl seemed bound to it. Was it that tutor she saw so often? Was it by some intrigue that caused her to return to him so willingly?

Not that it mattered, of course. He had not been told to do anything but watch, only to take account of what she did, and to get as close as possible without being noticed.

So simple a task, and yet he had almost revealed himself to her. He looked back in irritation at the moment he caught her in the corridor, staring up at him with her wide, childish eyes, frightened and taken back. There was something else hiding in those brown depths too, something that unnerved him. _Understanding_. Why would such a naïve little girl, who knew nothing of the big, dark world of deceit, crime, hate and injustice, understand that _she_ was in possible danger? _Not that she needed to be afraid of him, oh no. There were much scarier things that went bump in the night._

Such as that tutor of hers.

When he came out of the shadows, his body the color of night and his face covered by the stark obscurity of a mask, he felt as if he were staring into the pits of Hell, whose form came in that of Clymenus. His eyes burned like coals into his own, and he felt a trepidation he never thought he'd know. As much as prided himself on being an agent of immoral intent, he had never known fear as a normal man would, what with his past, including a string of misfortunate 'disappearances'. Yet in those eyes…was something _more_ than human. Something powerful that was hell-bent on protecting that girl.

_Protecting that girl_…

Lady Sorrel had no need to fear from this girl. As innocent and unaware as she was, she had a dark angel who was mindful of absolutely _everything_ going on. He could tell from his eyes, those eyes that burnt like hellfire through holes in a leather-clad face.

If Lady Sorrel wanted Christine out of the picture, she had no need of his services. The masked man – if he truly **was** a man – had no intention of letting his songbird go.

Not that he would tell his mistress that, of course.

He still had a life to pay for.

,')-'-,-'----

He watched from the highest window as he once again let her slip from his grasp like sand, loose and swift through his fingertips, alluring and unable to be tied down. Every bouncing footstep she took towards the carriage seemed to be a step away from him, however much he hated to imagine it. He realized, with growing dismay, that it was an obsession that was slowly growing inside of him, as well as one inside of her. They were very different, and were steadily creating a deepening distance between them.

Yet his obsession was growing from an unhealthy source, despite hers. His obsession lay solely with what was running through her mind, and, more importantly, what she was feeling in her heart. Was there, perhaps, another spot in her heart opening to another? Was it just jealousy that was budding from his uncertainty, jealousy over another man that she seemed so adamant about returning to?

_Stop thinking such infernal thoughts,_ he told himself. He was slowly becoming sick with his habit of returning to the notion of unfaithfulness. Was it simply because he had been so accustomed to the nature of adultery? He had seen it first-handedly with his own parents, as well as with their friends' parents, even _their_ parents' parents. Why was it, then, that even when he felt so self-loathing to draw to impractical conclusions, he felt he was so close to the truth?

He knew of Christine's nature, and there was no doubt of her goodness. He understood her character like he did simple arithmetic that he had learned in his childhood days. She would never betray him in such a betraying, hurtful way.

Then why did those feelings return every time she left?

His answer seemed to come in the form of Christine's maid, sneaking up behind him quite unexpectedly, keeping her low, raspy voice as meek as she appeared. "Monsieur le Vicomte, the Comte has just sent word that he had an urgent meeting that he needed to attend and is sorry to have not left word. He also requests a conference with you when he returns. He said that it was of great importance."

Raoul turned to the young girl, pitying her immediately. Up until recently, she had always been a quiet, unselfish servant, but now appeared _unhappy_, which was never the case, especially after Christine's arrival. He found himself to be empathetic towards the girl, for more reasons than one.

They shared a similar emotion behind their eyes.

They were both afraid of something.

"Thank you, Nicole." She bowed her head to him abruptly, but before taking off, Raoul's words cut her direction off. "Is anything the matter, Nicole?"

Her eyes fell to the floor immediately, her face becoming pallid with nervousness. "It is nothing, Monsieur."

He already knew that something was wrong, even before asking her. It was the same thing that plagued her that plagued him as well. It was a few moments of brief, awkward silence before he finally addressed the issue he wished to confront.

"May I ask you a question, Nicole?"

"Of course, Monsieur."

He walked away from the window, beckoning her to follow him to the other side of the room. He eyed the window wearily, then sighed before continuing. "I've already asked Christine what happened that night, when Monsieur Erik came to the manor, but I'm still rather curious as to what occurred. Christine didn't convey very much to me, and so it still seems a mystery as to what happened."

Nicole nodded her head slightly in understanding, yet did not meet his eyes.

"What exactly happened that night, Nicole?" He looked into her face so that her gaze might meet his, but her eyes remained steadily to the floor.

"I do not know exactly, Monsieur. After I answered the door I stayed in my lady's room until he left. When she came back into her room, her eyes were red as if she were upset, and asked me to leave her be."

Raoul frowned. _What had he done to make her upset?_ Something about him did not seem quite right to him.

"What happened when you answered the door, Nicole?"

She looked him straight in the eyes then, her entire soul cast into those twin pairs of emerald that looked to be drowning in a sea of white vastness. Her lips were the color of plums as she stared into his face, as if she were about to explode with tumult turned inwards.

"Oh, Monsieur, forgive me! I should have _never_ let him into the house in the first place!"

His heart went out to the girl. He knew the feeling she must have felt then. It was as if your entire soul was being examined before those eyes…

"Did he say anything to you?"

The girl pressed her face into her apron, wiping furiously as the tears raged down her freckled countenance. "He only said one thing. 'Kindly fetch Mademoiselle Daae, would you?' His _voice_, Monsieur! Such an evil being could not have such a voice! I never heard the likes of it in my life!" She began to shake, clutching her apron until her knuckles turned white. "Oh Monsieur, you do not know how terribly I have wanted to say something to you, but I didn't know how! Something within his voice bade me stay away, and keep out of his path." She took a deep, shuttering breath, attempting to calm her frazzled nerves. "Sometimes at night I hear that voice, and I wonder not once if I am truly hearing it, or half-witted by his memory! Am I indeed crazy, Monsieur?"

The concept was far-fetched, but he did not think lightly of hearing voices. _With this man, was it so improbable?_

"Do not fear any longer, Nicole. I am going to investigate this further and see what I can find out. Something does not add up here, and I intend to find out exactly what he has in mind for Christine."

Nicole said nothing, continuing to dab at her hollowed eyes.

,')-'-,-'----

"Now Christine, _Mignon_ is not a difficult opera to perform, as you've progressed a great deal in your abilities, yet it is imperative that is it part of your repertoire. What is most important for you to remember while singing the lead part is that Mignon shifts in her roles. She is, at first, her father's daughter. Then she is a captive to the gypsies. Furthermore, she becomes a woman in love, entrapped in her own jealousy and uncertainties. Once you have perfected the several moods she has, you will become the character and will have no trouble playing the part."

Christine was nothing but attentive to every word that he said, her eyes trained on his figure as he spoke, clinging to his tone, calm and patient, as it always was when he was coaching her during her lessons.

"Do you feel comfortable with the music, Christine?" Erik said after a moment of silence, his eyes trained on hers when she looked up from skimming the score, humming reflexively to the music before her.

She shook herself from her reverie, quickly fashioning an apology. "I'm sorry, Erik. New operas tend to extricate me from my surroundings. I always forget that I'm actually being taught _how_ to sing them."

"You are forgiven. It is good to get a general idea about the music before you actually begin practicing it. That way you understand in your mind how it is supposed to sound, so that you can know when you are wrong."

She smiled. "Yes, but I am not nearly as adept at seeing error as you are, Erik. You seem to have quite the knack for discovering my imperfections."

"Perfection has its limitations, which are only as infinite as your perception of them," he answered firmly.

Christine frowned slightly at his answer. His response had been a little too apathetic for her tastes, not matter how eloquent the response had been.

"You _are_ pleased that I returned, are you not, Erik?" she asked, her voice betraying the small amount of hurt she felt at his reluctance to join in her jesting.

He turned away from her, his hands linked behind his back, staring at the large, gilded mirror that stood like a beacon of truth before them. In its reflection she could see that he was staring pointedly at her, and could not help but feel the slightest of tremors run down her neck, as if this were not the first time they were looking at each other through a mirror.

He sighed, averting his eyes from his own reflection and onto hers.

"The only thing that pleases me, I am afraid to say, is the rapture I see in your eyes when you are singing. Nothing else gives me such great satisfaction as seeing you delight in the beauty that is your own voice."

Christine felt the air catch in her throat, and for a moment, almost forgot to breathe. She looked away in embarrassment, commanding her heart not to pound too loudly.

He turned back to her, his eyes once again holding the stern and authoritative look he had in them previously. "I have been in contact with the personnel around the Opera, Christine, and they have heard no facts about the people who seem to be after you. Truth be told, I am beginning to fear that the conspiracy we feared is outside of the Opera, thus which I have little control over." He paused to observe her reaction, but when she gave none, continued on. "However, if there is anything I have any control over, it is this Opera House. As long as you are inside of it, and do not wander far from it, save from the de Chagny residence, you are under my protection, and thus, I can keep watch over you."

All Christine could muster was a small nod, beginning to doubt the danger she thought she was in. What if everything had been a coincidence? What if she was being too guarded, and that she was in absolutely no danger at all? She felt incredibly thoughtless, cursing her own distrustfulness and disinclination to believe she was finally at peace.

"I'm sorry for putting you in such a position, Erik. I realize now that I was probably being too suspicious. I'm sure that it was really nothing to be worried about. You don't have to protect me from anything."

"On the contrary, my dear, I feel it is my obligation to look after your well being. Despite what you believe, your safety is very important. Do not let your guard down for a moment, not even while you are under the roof of this building. Will you promise me that, Christine?"

"I promise, Erik."

He seemed to believe her response, for he said nothing else for several minutes. He turned back to the mirror and traced the frame, his fingertips gliding over a piece that seemed to stand out on mirror's perimeter. "Tell me," he said slowly in a quiet, pensive tone, "Christine, have you heard stories of the 'Opera Ghost'?"

She furrowed her eyebrows, surprised by his inquiry that was usually only associated with casual conversation. "I've heard some of the ballerinas mention some sort of ghost that they were looking for now and again, yes. Why do you ask?" She felt something was wrong with his body language, but could not quite pinpoint the reasoning.

"Do you believe their tales?"

"You mean do I really believe there is a ghost who haunts the Opera?"

He nodded.

She shook her head. "I don't. It is a figment of their overactive imaginations."

"And yet you believe in angels."

"That's different. Angels _do_ exist. Ghosts are made-up to scare young girls so that they won't misbehave." _What was he trying to say?_

"Are not angels and ghosts the same?" His voice had a very odd quality to it, and it began to unnerve her.

"Angels come from heaven. They are good, kind beings that protect and guide humans. Ghosts are said to be the lost souls of the dead that haunt their victims for the rest of eternity. They are very much different."

He paused for a moment, continuing to trace the ridge in the mirror thoughtfully, his back towards her. "Could not ghosts be angels as well?"

Christine slowly stood up, approaching Erik's form cautiously. "Erik, why are you asking me this? What does the Opera Ghost have to do with anything?"

He turned around quickly, staring at her with eyes of intenseness. "What would you say is better, Christine, knowing or not knowing?" His body was of appropriate distance between them, yet she felt as if she were unclosed in a tight space with no where to run.

"I suppose that would depend on what is to be known, Erik," she answered quietly. She did not like his mysteriousness most of the time, and at this particular moment, it both frightened and mesmerized her.

They held each other's gaze for a moment of pure indecision, but Erik finally spoke again. "I am sorry for troubling you, my dear. I was only wondering about your knowledge of the subject."

She nodded in understanding, turning away from him and seating herself once again.

,')-'-,-'----

That was a hard chapter to end. The next one is going to be VERY good, I promise! Stick around!

Oh, and reviews are really nice! Please leave one, or two, or seven. Many thanks!


	23. The True Distortion

I know I usually add the author's note to the end of the story, but I would just like to post a quick **_Thank you!_** to all you out there who have reviewed so generously! Each of your reviews have inspired me and given me such confidence that as soon as I read them, I simply had to begin writing! So, I just wanted to say thanks again, especially for giving me my 100th review! I'm so excited! It's the farthest I've come. Okay, well, here's your chapter. Thanks again, guys! You're awesome!

,')-'-,-'----

"_Who dares" – he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him – _

"_who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him – _

_that we may know who we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!"_

_-_**"The Masque of the Red Death", E.A.P.**

,')-'-,-'----

His eyes followed her, as they did every time she left their lesson, to the carriage that always awaited her outside. He would dismiss her from their lesson inside the room, - _their_ room, he called it implicitly - and follow her indiscreetly, keeping watch over his cherished protégé. She would nod her head towards the driver, alerting him as to her readiness to leave, and step inside the coach, unaware of the pair of eyes that heatedly trailed her form.

When Erik was at last satisfied that Christine was secure, his sharp eyes spotted something that made him look twice. A few meters away from Christine's private brougham was another one, driven by an ordinary-looking man who seemed to have no customer occupying his vehicle at the moment. Erik would have passed his presence off quickly had he not seen the driver suddenly spring to life, as if he had been anticipating Christine's passage, and immediately made haste to follow them.

He had seen this man before, he now realized. Every day that Christine came, the same driver in the same brougham seemed to appear, sitting outside the opera everyday unfailingly. A feeling of foreboding stirred within Erik's chest. He was just about to hail his own taxi and follow them when yet another sight caught his eye.

Rolling into the entrance of the opera was none other than Philippe, Comte de Changy, stepping out of an unfamiliar coach, quickening his pace when he turned his head and realized that Christine's carriage was not yet out of eyeshot. Erik found this very intriguing. _What was the good count doing here in the middle of the day? Surely he had some more imperative business to attend to?_

Erik was torn; his worry over Christine's safety was a strange kind of seduction in itself, and yet, his curiosity over the Comte de Chagny's presence at the opera was too tempting an opportunity to let pass.

_Christine is in no immediate danger, _he persuaded himself, attempting to rid his mind of any unpleasant mishaps that might result. _If this stranger has been trailing her for some time, and has made no such move already, then he surely will not dare attempt anything today._

He lingered in his location for a moment longer, silently begging Christine to forgive him for neglecting his obligation to her. _My poor Christine, _he thought to himself as he watched Philippe enter the front doors, _she truly believes she is in no peril any longer. Perhaps her soon-to-be brother-in-law will shed some light on the situation, _he thought darkly.

Philippe's movements were more brisk and anxious than his usual long-stepped, confident stride. While Erik had no trouble keeping up with him, he found his behavior unusually peculiar. At certain intervals, he made it a habit to turn his head over his shoulder and glance about him, white-eyed, searching the halls with hasty glimpses. His breathing was labored and harsh, coming out in short huffs that were unfitting to so normally composed a man.

He reached the managers' office in a short amount of time, straightening his coat and smoothing back his windswept hair as he waited to be allowed entrance into the room. He didn't wait long, however, for the managers were in their office, sitting at their desks and reading through paperwork when he entered.

"Ah, Monsieur le Comte, what an unexpected delight!" Monsieur Richard greeted genuinely, standing from his seat and walking around his desk to shake his hand. Monsieur Moncharmin mirrored the gesture, his eyes, though weary, also held a quiet respect for the man and, furthermore, an authentic partiality.

"Forgive my unanticipated intrusion, gentlemen, but there is some rather urgent business I must discuss with you that is, I'm afraid to say, troubling me somewhat."

Both managers exchanged looks of concern with one another, attempting to mask their unease by putting on grins of attentiveness. "Please, have a seat," Moncharmin offered.

Philippe nodded his head in thanks, waited until the managers situated themselves in their own seats, and slowly began to speak. "You both recall our previous conversation involving mine and Raoul's ownership of Box 5 on opening nights, correct?"

They nodded their heads in agreement, listening closely. Erik, listening beneath the floorboards of the room, frowned as he realized in what direction the conversation was about to turn. _He's realized the papers are missing. _He cursed under his breath, berating himself for being so arrogant as to believe he could obtain those papers without Philippe taking notice. _Of course he would notice. The man is incredibly protective of his assets. _

"Well," Philippe continued, "it seems as if some confusion has taken place. You see, until just recently the papers have been in my possession. However, as I was looking through my records for it, the papers seem to have disappeared." He leaned forward into his lap, looking at each of the managers in turn. Just as he was about to say something, Monsieur Richard spoke.

"Surely you do not believe _we_ had something to do with the missing document…"

Erik sighed in agitation. The men were so dim-witted at times that he wondered at how they even _ran_ the theatre. Philippe, however, seemed to have more patience than he.

"I hold no notion of the sort, Armand. What I am inquiring about, however, is possibly the solution I have to the missing documentation."

Once again, the managers exchanged looks of befuddlement.

Philippe sat up straight once more, his mustache bristling over his lips as they pursed, whitening his lips to match his paling expression. "I have heard from a private source that there used to be... _another_ who occupied Box 5 at opening performances. Due to the anonymity of such patron, it has been a mystery as to who this person could be, and the reason for their refusal at sitting in any other location, as well as their order that no one else occupy that section." Philippe's confidence began to waver, yet not so much so that the managers noticed any change in his continence. Erik, however, could hear it in his voice, and almost reveled in his opponent's sudden faltering to convey any further.

Richard sighed heavily, running a hand through his thick, though graying, quantity of hair. "We know of which patron you are referring to, Monsieur, and cannot say much on the matter."

Philippe looked impatient now. "And why not?"

Moncharmin spoke for the both of them, remaining tightlipped as his partner begging to look alleviated. "You see, Monsieur, the patron who usually occupies that section is…well…"

"A ghost," Richard finished bluntly.

Moncharmin shot him a look of annoyance before continuing. "What he _means_ to say is that-,"

"When we overtook the opera, Monsieur, Debienne and Poligny left us no great understanding of what we were dealing with in terms of this _person_, you see." Richard spoke quickly, as if he had been waiting a very long time to say what was on his mind, suddenly sitting up straight. "We were quite over our heads when we received his letter."

"_Whose_ letter?" Philippe inquired edgily.

Again, another exchange. "We know not of his name, nor where he operates from. All we know is that every month he demands a salary of twenty thousand francs, as well as exclusive occupation of Box 5 at opening performances." They both looked exhausted, as if they had been harassed beyond any tolerable level.

Philippe looked astounded at this information. "And…his demands have been met?"

Moncharmin nodded in compliance, his voice sounding drained of energy. "Until, that is, we sold his box to you, Monsieur."

Philippe looked incredulous at this information. Imagine, some unnamed person, demanding an entire box and such a large salary! "If you do not know from where this man has come, how can you deliver to him his salary?"

Richard shook his head in disgruntlement. "_Madam Giry_, the ballet mistress, seems to have some sort of correspondence with him," he replied bitterly.

"And have you tried questioning her?"

"Countless times. The woman simply cannot, or, amazingly, will not reveal any information to us."

Erik had the uncontrollable urge to snicker. _Insubordinate fools! If only they knew with whom they were dealing!_

Philippe resigned himself to tapping his fingers on the edge of his seat. "What does the rest of the company make of it?" he dropped his voice considerably, though it was no more difficult for Erik to hear.

Both looked livid as Moncharmin answered, expressions turning indignant. "They believe it to be the 'opera ghost'. Some sort of fairytale the ballet corps have ingeniously designed to make tongues wag at the foolhardiness of their managers to comply with such outrageous demands!"

This was just what Philippe wanted to hear. His intention by coming had not been to solve the mystery of Box 5, by no means at all. It had been to solidify his theory about Christine's tutor.

Erik. The Opera Ghost. They were one in the same.

In contrast to the exasperated managers, Philippe's tone was curious and calm. "And what of this opera ghost?"

They both looked at him as if he were starching mad. "It is a legend! There is no such hallucination as great as this 'opera ghost' that they rattle on about! It is simply a crazed lunatic who is demanding money to supply his fixations!"

"Then why do you fund him?"

They looked suddenly sheepish. "We have tried to ignore his demands, Monsieur, but something always…tends to go wrong," Moncharmin explained apologetically.

Richard chimed in. "Lights flicker, sets disappear…"

"The actors hear voices…"

"People go missing…"

"Missing?" Philippe looked perturbed at this information.

"They always turn up," Richard quickly answered. "They just seem to get lost and eventually, when they turn up, they are unable to explain what happened to them."

Philippe felt sated. His questions had been answered, and there was no doubt in his mind as to the explanation of the circumstances they were all in. This _Erik_ was not a paid employee of the Opera.

Well, not in the conventional sense, anyways.

"Thank you, gentlemen, you have been very informative." Philippe made to leave, but before he did, Richard stopped him.

"What about Box 5?"

"I fear, gentlemen, that Box 5 is the last thing that any of us should be concerned about," Philippe answered tonelessly before shutting the door behind him.

,')-'-,-'----

Erik, standing beneath the floorboards of the office, felt utterly cold from his feet to his chest. While this normally did not disturb him, he felt possibly the greatest vulnerability at that moment that he had ever felt in his life. Even the sounds of the furious scribbling of the managers' pens did nothing to slow his raging blood.

He had prided himself in having total control over every circumstance he was involved in, thus leaving no room for lapses or emotional commitment.

Now, everything had changed because of the simplest blunder.

He knew he had to act quickly. Philippe, now maintaining the secret of the opera ghost, held his very world in his hands. Not only was his life at stake, but also the precious world he had built around himself and Christine. If he did not get to her first, Philippe would single-handedly destroy everything he had worked so hard to build.

He clenched his fists in fury. _I will not yield so easily, not after I have worked so hard to gain her trust. I have to get to her first and explain myself before that thoughtless boy of hers has the chance to, as I'm sure the Comte will tell him first._

Erik wasted no time. He was merely seconds behind Philippe and was approaching ever-faster. He had the upper-hand: Philippe needed time to explain to his brother what was going on.

He would get to Christine first.

,')-'-,-'----

The dinner table was laid out for a beautiful, candle-lit dinner for two, complete with a bottle of costly wine from Tuscany, a small vase of hand-picked wildflowers, and two crystal candlestick holders from which orangey wax steadily trickled down.

The two occupants at the table exchanged very little dialogue. While one held their silence to be comfortable tranquility, the other felt a sense of unease and a lack of something to say.

Raoul noticed Christine glance at him out of the corner of his eye, aware of his obvious discomfort at the quietness of the room. While his hand was too far away to be touched, he could tell she wished she could somehow placate him by touching him in some small manner.

"Raoul, dear, is something troubling you?"

He looked up from his barely-touched plate, smiling half-heartedly at his fiancé. "Of course not, beloved. Is the dinner to your liking?"

He glanced at her plate with obvious satisfaction, for her plate was almost half-eaten. He had become so accustomed to the grieving, quiet Christine that he was startled, pleasantly so, when she began to change from the meek daughter mourning her dead father to the happier girl ready to embark on a new life. The past few months had seen an incredible change in his childhood friend, and it gave him newfound courage in their pending nuptials.

"Yes, thank you. Are you not hungry?" She frowned with what he took to be concern, again looking as if she wished to reassure him in whatever way she could.

_Oh, Christine, but if you knew what would truly comfort me, it would cause you sorrow._

"I'm afraid to say I haven't much of an appetite recently. I fear it may be the excitement of marrying you that has me so tongue-tied this evening."

She blushed prettily, a habit she tended to have that he adored in her. She seemed to be aware of her beauty at times, very rarely, and at others she seemed wholly oblivious to it.

She began to pick at her food unconsciously, suddenly giving him the great urge to not let her escape into her wonderings. It was dangerous territory to him, for he could not easily tell what was on her mind. It was his most formidable enemy.

That, and Erik.

"What are you thinking about, Christine?" he asked in an almost entreating tone.

She didn't look up, but instead put her fork down as if she were through with the meal. "I was actually thinking about the wedding, Raoul. We really haven't talked about any of it…"

Something suddenly ignited Raoul's memory. "You have just reminded me of something, actually. I know we haven't made many plans, due to the fact I've left the majority of the planning to my sisters," he made a small grimace at this fact, which made her laugh, "but I had actually meant to ask you something that's been on my mind."

"Yes?" she asked curiously.

"Well…" he grasped the stem of his wine glass, sloshing the liquid about in the glass to swirl its contents. "It actually has to do with your dress."

"My dress?" she asked, puzzled.

He stared at her avidly, hoping she would see the hope in his eyes and take it to heart. "You see, I have been going through a few of my mother's old things, and among them were my mother's wedding dress. I know you would probably rather wear a dress that you were able to design for yourself, but it would mean the world to me if you honored her memory by wearing it."

Christine looked taken aback by his request, but after a few moments of surprised disbelief, she smiled and nodded her head.

"Will it fit me?" she said graciously.

"Thank you, Christine. I promise I will repay your generosity."

"I am looking forward to it," she said with a sparkle in her eye.

Raoul stood up and was about to go in the direction of the kitchen when a crashing noise came from upstairs. He turned his head sharply in the direction of the stairs, hurrying to the staircase with Christine at his heels.

He was just about to ascend the staircase when a distraught, masculine voice called to him from the front door. Hesitating to act, he looked in both directions, deciding what action to take.

"It's Philippe," she said quickly, matching his fearful gaze and grabbing a hold of his arm. "Go to him, Raoul, it sounds like it's important. I'll see what happened upstairs."

"Absolutely not, Christine! It could be an intruder!" he said fervently, his tone entirely serious.

She shook her head, curls flying about her reddening face. "No one could climb the wall to get to the second story, Raoul. It's too difficult." She smiled as if to conciliate him. "Nicole probably dropped a plate of china in the hallway. I'll just go up and see if she's alright."

Raoul looked skeptical, but after a moment rushed in the direction that Philippe called him from.

,')-'-,-'----

Twilight was impending. The sun was slowly sinking into a sea of indigo-orange inkiness, swathing the second floor in a mirage of color.

When Christine reached the top of the stairs, she called out Nicole's name. After receiving no response, she slowly made her way about the landing, looking for any evidence as to a disturbance.

It was entirely peaceful in the hallways, with no sign of any servants lingering about, cleaning or attending to some part of the house. This worried her. After walking about for a few minutes, she made her way to her room, her heart starting to pound with thickening dread.

She opened the door, seeing no sign of any presence in the room, save for the lengthening shadows on the floor that streamed in through the opened balcony. _That's strange, _she though to herself, _I didn't leave the doors to the terrace open…_

Before she could do anything, someone was suddenly in front of her, her vision blocked by the darkness of their body and the force of their gloved hand upon her mouth. She tried to scream, but no sound erupted from her body. She attempted to rip the arm from her mouth, but her captor only grabbed her arm. She was about to retaliate again when the person spoke.

"Christine, be still."

Christine's form went rigid, her entire body feeling heavy suddenly. "Erik?" she said in a muffled voice, for his hand was still over her mouth.

He removed his hand from her mouth and let go of her arm, stepping away from her so that she could see he was who he was.

In the darkening light of the room, she could barely make out his form. She confirmed his identity by the fact that his mask, ever present on his person, was retaining shadows from their shrouded surroundings.

"What are you doing here?" she asked in shocked incredulity.

His grave seriousness confirmed her worst fears, the pleading in his eyes and the desperation in his voice being evidence.

Something was terribly wrong.

"It was imminent that you found out. I came here to tell you before they had the opportunity."

"Before _who_ have the opportunity? Erik, what's going on?"

He didn't respond in time, for Raoul burst into the room, his chest heaving shallowly and his eyes wild with crazed belligerence.

"_Get away from her_," he said in a dangerously low tone, his arm at his side shaking with emotion, while his other arm was held out straight towards Erik, his hand wielding a pistol that was aimed straight at Erik's head.

,')-'-,-'----

You probably hate me right now. I promise I'll end this cliff-hanger soon! Please be patient!

In the meantime…review!


	24. You Decieved Me

"And that last hour – speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave – at that period, if I remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative philosophy of the day."

- **The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion, E.A.P.**

,')-'-,-'----

The tiniest of white-hot pin pricks began to leap and spark before her eyes, invading her vision like miniscule demons. Her mind spun with hateful lurches, sending shots of icy shivers through her arms and legs, the air in her lungs feeling like bricks in her chest. She felt as if she were suddenly outside herself, looking down at her body from above, merging within a turbulent universe of shifting winds, revolving planets and shooting stars of molten fire. She felt herself become one in part of a cosmic dance, searching endlessly for the finale that would give her the freedom she yearned. It was within these short, chaotic seconds that her soul crashed down into her body again, forcing her consciousness to take awareness, to look into the face of the hovering gun, gleaming harshly in the manifesting moonlight, its hard, glittering cold steel causing such terror that it shook her to her very soul.

"I see Monsieur le Comte has reached you in far less time than I had estimated," Erik stated evenly, his air of self-importance ever prominent, even in the most outstanding of circumstances. "What exactly did he relate to you, Monsieur?"

"_Get – **away** – from her_," Raoul repeated through gritted teeth, his piercing eyes never leaving Erik's form.

Christine's brain finally connected with her tongue, swallowing thickly to ease the voice out of her constricted throat. "Raoul, you're frightening me. What has gotten into you?"

"Don't you see, Christine?" The hand that held the pistol began to shake from the emotional toll on his person. "You've been the victim of some sick game he's been playing, and I'm about to make him pay for the damage he's caused."

"If I were you, Vicomte, I would dismiss that opinion," Erik threw out bitterly, rising to his full height, the blackness of his form blending in with the shadows of the room, making it difficult to discern how large he truly was.

"I would advise to you refrain from speaking, Monsieur," he said commandingly, the scowl on his face deepening.

"And I would advise _you_ to not speak of that which you do not comprehend!" Erik shot back, the venom in his voice a powerful adversary against the cold glint of Raoul's pistol.

"Enough!" Christine choked in dismay, silencing the two men as their eyes continued to shoot daggers in the other's direction. "Hand me that gun, Raoul, before you lose your temper and hurt someone."

"I can't do that, Christine."

"Why not?" she cried exasperatedly.

"Because _Monsieur Fantôme_ has come here to take you and _kill_ me…have you not, Monsieur?" Raoul's voice was filled with rancor on his last word, unable to hide his abhorrence.

"Who are you talking about, Raoul?" Christine replied, unscathed.

"I am talking about him!" Raoul jabbed one of his free fingers in Erik's direction, his voice little less than a shriek.

"Erik, what is he talking about?" Christine turned her face to Erik's, searching his eyes for an explanation. He did not meet her eyes, yet was fully aware that she was in desperate need of his negation. Her entire soul replied on his response, but when he made none, she stood in front of him, compelling him to focus his eyes on her.

"Look at me!" she pleaded irritably, grasping his jaw with her hand and forcing him to drop his gaze to hers. "Tell me what he is talking about right now or so help me I will shoot you both!"

The intenseness of Erik's eyes almost left her senseless. The white mask glowed like a wolf's glossy coat under the light of the full moon, betraying no thought, no emotion, no flicker of innocence or guilt. Only his fierce, penetrating yellow eyes held any evidence to his soul, and even of that she was no longer certain.

"Which answer would sit better with you, Christine? A fantasy or the truth?" His voice dripped with disdain, betraying him more than Raoul ever could.

_Could not ghosts be angels as well…?_

"No…" she whispered softly, letting go of his jaw and backing away slowly. "Oh _God_, **no**, _no_…" Her whisper became a moan, leaking out of the fingers that pressed over her mouth with the knowledge of his betrayal. It planted itself inside her heart like a dark, evil blossom which only continued to grow as the seconds passed.

He would not utter a word then. He knew it would be in vain.

They all jumped as the sound of the cocking of the gun clicked in the room, the harsh reality of the situation returning to them in the lapse of a heartbeat.

"Do you intend to kill me, boy? For if it's a duel to the death that you seek, I'm afraid I have taught Death everything He knows."

"You are by far at the disadvantage, **sir**. I see no weapon on your person."

"Ah, but that will be the cause of your fall, Vicomte. You see, not only do I breathe music, I breathe violence as well, as I'm sure your brother's lovers have whispered to him in the heat of passion. The little minks do tend to pry into my affairs."

"Be silent!"

Christine turned her face at the ugly truth of Erik's incensed words, hot tears of shame beginning to trickle from her eyes.

"I'm afraid I shall be forced to, as your precious fiancé has not the ability to stomach such crude discussion. Forgive me, Vicomtess, I was out of place," he spat, his wording flying in the direction of Christine. Her face shot back to his, a mixed expression of disbelief and anger in her eyes.

"You betrayed my trust," she murmured shatteringly.

"Do not play coy with me, madam. You knew what I was from the moment we met, and yet you returned to me again and again! In whichever way I have betrayed you, you cannot say that I did not give you the chance to run from me. It was only by your own will that you came at all!"

"You will not speak to her in such a manner, nor in any way ever again!" Raoul's protest was furiously invigorating, giving him strength to step closer to Erik with all the instinct of a man protecting his beloved.

His gaze shot from Christine to Raoul and back again, settling on Christine with a new emotion in his voice. Christine recognized it to be, despite her own raging emotions, unwillful desolation. "It won't end here, Christine. You cannot deny the summoning of your soul to music forever. You will be forced to choose one day, and that day is approaching quickly."

"Christine has already decided, in the moment you betrayed her innocence by evincing your monstrous self!"

Erik froze on the word 'monstrous', yet did not falter as he continued to speak, his tone mesmerizing defined and hypnotic, causing her eyes to go wide in alarm.

"You belong to Music. Until you decide, to Him you are solely bound."

When the cryptic message finally sank in, Christine could hardly move. Before she could blink an eyelash, Raoul had finally shot, causing Erik to disappear in the shrouded darkness of his cloak, crashing through the balcony doors and climbing down from the terrace. By the time the screeching blast of the gun had finally dissipated from the air, Erik had disappeared.

Raoul raced after him, throwing the bruised doors to the balcony open in order to release fire on Erik's retreating form. "Damn it!" he shouted as he pulled the trigger relentlessly. Although Erik was still in shooting range, he was not able to fire on him. "The bastard has only one shot!" He tore back inside the room and raced down the stairs, his pounding footsteps being the only sound discernable to Christine in her shocked state. When all was calm, and the moment had finally passed, she sank to her knees and, for the first time since her father left her, truly cried.

,')-'-,-'----

"This is not good, Philippe," she finally said, strumming her pale, spider-like fingertips upon the red velvet armrests, looking at what could have very well been her brother-in-law. She looked at him under hooded eyes, the sobriety she displayed catching him off-guard. He had expected her to be angry, vicious, aggressive, anything but the quiet, contemplative person who sat precariously before him. He had learned from previous experiences, however, that her behavior in these occurrences were quite like that of a crouching leopard; she would first take in the seriousness of the situation, then, after a moment's build-up of energy and ardor, she would take off on an impetus and divulge her immense displeasure.

"I am aware of that, Sorrel," he said tersely, his own frustration beginning to seep through his fruitless attempt at staying patient.

"I should hope you are **aware** of the situation, Philippe! It is because of your irrational sympathy towards the little wench that you foiled our plan! Had you stopped in your _brief_ moment of revived morality, you could have informed me first, thus dislodging your idea to tell either of them your little secret!" She gripped the armrests violently in her re-born fervor, employing all her energy to her aspersions. He could not eradicate, no matter how boiling his temper was, that even in her fury, her pulchritude was unmatched by any other creature to walk the earth. _How very like the tale of Snow White, _Philippe reflected ominously. _The evil stepmother looks through her mirror and sees a blossoming flower who would easily steal her glory._

"What would you suggest I do?" he asked slowly, leaning forward in his own velvet-cushioned seat, his hands clasped before him, the knuckles on his hands turning a deathly white.

"Fix this." Her voice was like a backlash across the face, the stinging vulgarity of her words biting across the air not unlike a rapier.

"How?" he asked plaintively, aware of the mourning tone of his voice and hating himself for showing weakness in front of such a woman.

She scowled, the lines on her face unbecoming and yet intriguing at the same time. "Must I lay it out for you, Philippe? Very well." She brought her hands to meet under her chin, interlocking her fingers. She leaned back into the seat further, the shadows from the firelight dancing like spirits across her moon-lit face. "If our plan is to carry out, we have no alternative but to resort to desperate measures. Do you understand?"

He sighed deeply, not liking the direction in which she was going. He nodded nonetheless. "Go on."

She brought her hand to the back of her neck, lifting her crimson hair from her back and placing it delicately over her shoulder. She said nothing for a moment, staring into the depths of nothingness until she regained her thought process, her voice clearer than crystal, and even more certain. "There is no other way to make Raoul come to terms with his fate than to drive Christine away. You must see to it that Christine knows her place in society and that she cannot - as well as Raoul seeing she cannot - ever marry someone of higher class. You must make it your mission to send Christine away once and for all. It is the opportune moment to do so, as I'm sure her spirit is broken. Your disapproval will surely be the final act in a series of unfortunate events in her life. Only this can force her away without resorting to any extreme altercations."

Philippe looked away in uncertainty, her resolve making him, if possible, even more discomforted than before. How could she so willingly suggest that he break Christine, after all that the poor girl had been through? He realized with growing dismay that all along, it had been Sorrel's intention to rip the girl's will to shreds, if it did, in fact, come to that. The woman, seemingly, had not a single shred of integrity in her, and would not falter, had she the chance, to shoot another woman down, simply for the sake of getting what she desired.

He was simply a pawn in her game of intrigue, deceit and wickedness. His partnership, though by no means founded on moral ground, was still heavily unbalanced on her part by the shallowness of the woman's purpose. His own plans, even from the beginning, had been rooted in the scruples he felt towards her offer that she had made him one dark, eerie night in his office, haunted by his conscious like a man on the edge of his sanity. His own wish for Raoul's well being had rested on the uncertain belief that by listening to whatever the woman bade him do, Raoul would, in the very end, be grateful to his brother for recovering his reputation.

That was what he was doing, wasn't it? Saving Raoul from a terrible fate? One which entitled a lifetime of whispered gossip that he had married a woman of poor breeding and callow decorum?

"And if I cannot?" he muttered indolently, his waning support in their scheme beginning to show.

The steely hardness of her eyes retired him to his old disposition that he was unable to argue with her, so great was the authority she had over him. "Then you would condemn your brother to a lifetime of hardship!" she fired maliciously. "Can you not _comprehend_ how difficult it is to marry beneath you, Philippe? I have experienced it once before, and believe me, it is no walk in the park!" At the bewildered look he gave, she scoffed impatiently, dismissing his expression with mounting edginess. "I am in no mood to share informalities, monsieur. We are in a state of crisis, and I am not about to give up after what I have waited so long to do!" She leapt from her retiring position and sat up straight, her tone immeasurably vitriolic. "I do not care how you do it, nor in what fashion you convey your meaning, but you will. I will even suggest the method by which you go about doing this."

He cringed visually at her intimidating tone, knowing better than to disrupt her conspiring. He knew that if he went any farther, he would cross a line, both with his brother and with Christine. If he agreed to what she wanted him to do, he would lose Christine, and possibly his brother, forever. However, unlike Christine, Raoul could eventually forgive him for his treachery, honoring his intent of giving Raoul the opportunity to embark on the life of a true, developed nobleman. A life he would share with a woman who was of noble birth, who would revere him and respect him for all their lives.

A woman like Lady Sorrel de Douay.

He pushed away his growing apprehensiveness, assuring himself that what he did was for the greater good. There was no availability in the worries of a nobleman to give mind to the fate of a shattered girl, nor to the undeserving heartbreak thereafter.

What he agreed to was best for his younger sibling. The brother he felt he owed everything to, since he had not truly known the love of his parents for as long as Philippe had. The brother who felt more like a son to him.

For his brother, he would sell his soul to the Devil.

"What do you suggest?"

,')-'-,-'----

She swung her legs over the edge of her bed, the restlessness in her body compelling her to release all the pent-up energy she was harboring. Her feet slipped softly into her silken ballet slippers and her arms into a warm robe, the material parting like ripples upon a pond. She took her brush from her vanity, carefully running the fine bristles through her tangled hair before exiting her room and drawing into the lightless hall.

_The house is darker than usual_, she noted as she descended the stairs, her feet blindly searching for each step with the toe of her slipper as she concentrated on keeping her eyes on the room she was entering. Her guard had been up ever since the incident, her mind always on alert so that she may expect the unexpected. For days she had kept to herself, leaving her room only for the sake of the necessities that the day required.

Raoul had anticipated no less and understood completely, and for that she was grateful.

When her hand finally found the reassuring knob at the end of the handrail, she breathed a sigh of relief, her eyelashes fluttering involuntarily. Unconsciously she had been holding her breath, oblivious to the sudden pounding of her anxiety-ridden heart.

As she walked towards the kitchen, a stream of masculine voices entered into her awareness, causing her to almost topple over a chair in her alarm. She recognized the two automatically, the voices so familiar that, at first hearing them, she did not think greatly upon the fact that they were engaged so late at night. She would have passed off the discussion had she not heard the tone of voices resonating through the hallway. One was merely solemn. The other, however, was displeased...and disappointed.

She moved in the direction of the voices, attempting to keep her footfalls as quiet as humanly possible, clutching her robe closer to her person for the security it provided. A line of lamplight split into the middle of the looming corridor ahead, its source being the crack in the door that had been left open just slightly. Christine stepped towards the doorway, leaning into the light and, intrigued, listened to the conversation with bated breath.

"Allow me to point out how quickly this episode will cultivate around the circles we move with, Raoul. The consequences for such rash behavior will only result in the utmost disgrace to our family name."

Christine flinched at the voice. It was undoubtedly Philippe's, and from what she could tell, which was nothing short of evident, they were discussing what had happened a few nights prior.

"And how, pray tell, do you assume anyone is going to find out?" Raoul sounded drained and irritated at the cross-examination.

"Consider our home life, Raoul. We have servants, do we not? Despite the certainty that they are surrounding us on a day-by-day basis, they are also watching our every move, nosing into our private affairs, collecting what meager snatches of delectable intrigues they can, so that they might share them with the servants that labor in other homes. Do not believe for one moment that what occurred inside this house will not get out, for I can almost promise you that everyone will find out soon enough."

"And if they do? What of it? Does it matter so much that a few self-centered, well-to-do matrons obtain the knowledge that a psychopath tried to get close to my fiancé? I thwarted his endeavors; end of story. Even that madman is sharp enough to know that if he comes within one hundred meters of Christine he will be shot down before he can charm her with his hexes."

"You are missing the point, Raoul! I do not _care_ if a man who calls himself a ghost and haunts a decrepit theatre associates himself with Christine. What I _am_ concerned about, however, is the fact that she allowed such an occurrence to take place at all!"

"It was not her fault that a lunatic lied to her and led her on!"

"How can someone not conceive that a character is shady upon first impression, Raoul? If you knew that someone was dangerous, your internal instinct would alert you the moment you laid eyes upon them that the person in question was, in fact, dangerous!"

"Christine is not like other people, Philippe. She believes there is good in everyone and drives to see it for herself!"

"That may be good and true if you are little children playing in an attic, Raoul, but we are talking about the woman you have chosen to take as your _wife_. The two of you cannot play games any longer. I know you are devastatingly in love with her, Raoul, and I know that you have been so for as long as you've known her. However, the truth of the matter is that Christine is not right for you!"

A long pause followed. Then, "What do you mean, '_Christine is not right for you_?'"

"I mean that she is not fit to be the wife of a Vicomte! I understand how much you love each other, and that you hold dearly to the adolescent notion that love can conquer all obstacles. But this is the real world, brother, and in this reality a girl like Christine is not acceptable! You are expected to marry into nobility, Raoul, and the class from which Christine comes is of degenerates and beggars! I will not let you throw your life away for the sake of a promise that you made to a grief-stricken, doe-eyed child!"

She had heard enough. She made no effort to stay around long enough to listen to Raoul's enraged response. It was likely that he was simply offended on his part, not hers, she thought miserably.

She ran blindly then, her mind spinning so quickly out of control that she could not determine what she was doing or in which direction she was running. All she knew was that an icy blast of air hit her legs as she threw open the front doors, her hurt, regret, confusion and humiliation all streaming up within her at once and threatening to flood her senses until she was sure to go mad. All she knew at that moment was the feel of humid, frigid air against her cheeks, the wet, sloshing pavement under her thin soles, and the once-warm material of her robe hitting against her bare legs like shameful whips.

She could not think, not act reasonably then, only drawing upon the one thing that made any sense to her in that moment: _I have to keep running. I have to keep running. _

Her body screamed in protest and her actions and thoughts, biding her to turn around and return to the comfort and warmth of her home.

_It's not my home any longer. Philippe is ashamed of me. Raoul does not want me. Erik has betrayed me…_

The pain of a dream deterred returned at full force. Currents of tears flew down her cheeks, turning into cold frost as it crystallized on her cheeks.

Her soaked slippers stumbled upon a crack in the road, causing her foot to catch, landing her moisture-ridden face on the cold, hard street. She began to shake, her bathrobe no longer offering any heat to her freezing skin.

_Papa, how I long for your arms, now more than ever before…_

Her head throbbed heavily. Her eyes began to shut, the world around her turning blacker than night.

Before her eyes shut completely, a figure kneeled beside her, touching their hand to her forehead. Her skin burned beneath their fingertips.

"Angel?" she whispered.

Then, all was dark.

,')-'-,-'----

You have no idea how long I've waited to write this chapter! You all will be very pleased to know that the following chapters will be composed of some very relationship-building moments between Erik and Christine. Well, most of you, I presume. Anyways, I really hope you think well of this chapter, and would love to hear your thoughts and suggestions!

Again, thank you for your great support! Review, review, review!


	25. Why Have You Brought Me Here?

"There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell – but the imagination of man is no Carathis, to explore with impunity its' every cavern. Alas! the grim legion of sepulchral terrors cannot be regarded as altogether fanciful – but, like the Demons in whose company Afrasiab made his voyage down the Oxus, they must sleep, or they will devour us- they must be suffered to slumber, or we perish."

"**The Premature Burial", E.A.P. **

,')-'-,-'----

First there was darkness. Then there was utter, interminable cold.

It was a cold unlike anything she had ever known. She felt it in her hair, upon her wrists, running up and down her spine and under her feet. The chill was so heavy that it was almost hot, burning her flesh and making her dizzy with its' raw iciness. She couldn't think, couldn't breath with the torment of it, pleading silently to whatever powers that be that the anguish would soon cease.

She was about to succumb to unconsciousness once more when a sudden warmth filled her mouth, heating her frozen tongue and making her eyes tear. It was pungent and sharp, a liquid akin to whiskey, and although she had never drunken the substance, she knew the taste to be something similar. A hand gently rubbed her icy throat, coaxing her to swallow the medicine. She obliged hastily, so powerful was the taste upon her tongue that she was curious to the feeling she would have in her stomach. After a few moments, the warmth spread throughout her tremendously, giving new life to her dead body and strengthening her lungs. She sucked in a blissfully large draft of air, taking pleasure in the first time she was able to breath without difficulty.

She lay still for a few moments, floating in and out of sleep as the effects of the drink began to wear off. She was still warm, but her skin was cold as ice. She had no concept of time or of where she was. The only thing she conceived of in that turbulent state was that she was in a bed, and wherever that bed was, it was in a very, very dark place.

In her illness-invoked hallucinations, she dreamt of dark shadows filtering across the room, dark hands leaping from every corner, covering her in heavy materials, touching her face and smoothing back her hair, replacing the moist, heated piece of cloth on her forehead when it become cool. Even in her fright she felt a kind of still complacency, a certainty that, no matter how close she was to death, she would be delivered to her resting place peacefully.

After hours of waking nightmares and sleeping visions, her eyelids fluttered open, taking in the vast space around her groggily. She took every aspect of her surroundings in drunkenly, her eyesight frail. She felt a sudden rush of powerlessness overcome her, frightening her beyond her control.

She attempted to sit up but was immediately pushed down, her body's weakness combining forcefully with gravity to prevent her ascension. Her head fell back like a heavy weight upon her pillow, her matted, unkempt hair spilling around her face in hideous clumps. She lay unmoving on the bed, sulking in her own self-pity, when the door to her room opened slowly.

She lay as still as possible, holding her breath for fear of the person attending to her. In that moment, she realized with dismay that she was not in her own bed, for the sheets were a far darker shade than the cream colored sheets she used, and there were no windows to speak of. The only light in the room were a few flickering candles, set upon a nightstand a few feet away from her.

She felt the cold she had previously experienced return to her partially, only this time for a different reason. It started like a whisper in the pit of her stomach, inching its way up her throat until she felt she might scream with fright. She caught herself biting her lip, bating her body so that she might make no sudden movements, no involuntary jolts. Her old complaint was slowly begging to take form, conjuring its' brash conclusions once more that she was in danger of being stalked. She knew now that her fear was not in vain, and that she had had good reason to be afraid. In any case, it was too late now.

The figure approached silently, carrying with them a few objects that she could not make out in the dim light. Christine kept her eyes opened in slits, peeking through her eyelashes to view the person who was caring for her. Her vision was still dull and weak from the countless hours of unfulfilled rest, thus hindering her use of them. Still, as they approached, she was able to make out their figure more easily, and, to her chagrin, she recognized the person within seconds.

In the yellowish, austere candlelight, she made out the figure of a man shrouded in black evening dress, his entire face swathed in a stark white mask, the two flickering, molten-filled eyes staring out from two eyeholes.

She gasped unintentionally, too diverted by her revelation to realize in time that she had made a sound.

"You have awoken from the coma. That is a good sign," he commented knowingly, no trace of surprise in his voice.

"Where am I?" Her voice was weak, sore from lack of usage. She realized for the first time that she was ill, and not just ill, but had been very close to death, and was still fighting. She could hardly get words to form on her swollen tongue, let alone form thoughts in her dazzled shock.

"You are in my home." His speech was somewhat reticent, starling her, to her own bewilderment, more than anything else about her situation.

She tried to speak, but no coherent language arose from her lips.

He shushed her gently, holding out to her a glass of liquid that he had mixed with some sort of solution. "Drink this."

When she made no move to take the glass, he sighed quietly, putting the glass upon the nightstand and gathering the supplies he had placed on her bed.

"You _will_ drink that, Christine, if you wish to get better. I shall leave you alone for now, but I will be back." He walked out without another word, leaving her with her thoughts and the looming threat of another exchange.

,')-'-,-'----

The length of her unsteady illness lasted for almost three days before she was able to obtain a stable body temperature. Her fever lifted and fell several times, causing great worry on Erik's part. He was fearful that if her fever did not break soon, he would have no choice but to send for a doctor, the last thing he intended to do.

While Erik was more than knowledge in the field of medicine, he could not attest to the methods used in the more Western part of the world. While Eastern medicine was traditional on its firm foundation of ancient remedies and techniques, Western science was making leaps and bounds in its constant progression. As Erik was a master of the old medicines of the Asian continent and Western Europe, he could not claim to be one of the Eastern European variation.

He entered her room more often than was necessary, checking for any change in her behavior or temperature. He would not stay for too long, however, only long enough to make an appropriate examination of her state. His nervousness of staying too long was rooted in his weariness to reply to her inquiries, for he knew that she would, most likely, demand that he release her from her dark prison so that she might be taken back to the Chagny residence.

_Well, my dear, I'm afraid to say that I simply will not have it. You are in my hands now. To return you to the boy would be to sign your death certificate for you. I will not allow you to risk coming in such proximity to death again!_

He had been following her, as he had every night since his secret was discovered, tracing her every move and keeping only the most protected watch over her. She was constantly unaware of his presence, of that he was sure. Yet, in her he noticed a sense of longing, albeit, something similar to that aura she gave off every time she mentioned her father. He had become another disappointment in her life, another let-down. He would rather rot in hell than see her so distressed.

He had made it his business to overhear the Comte's petty confession to his witless brother, professing his long-termed displeasure. Erik thought only the lowest of the both of them. They both, in that moment, acted as two adolescents would act, discarding any other thoughts but the topic at hand. What they failed to realize was that the subject of their conversation had overheard them and, in heartrending agony, stolen from the manor in a frenzied flight to find compassion that was not to be found in her 'home'.

He followed her readily, as he was sure he would follow her to the ends of the earth, his own heart ripping at the intense emotions he suspected her to be feeling. He immediately feared for her health when he realized the conditions she threw herself so thoughtlessly into and, after falling to the ground, immediately took her to the only place where he had complete control: the cellars beneath the Opera House.

He had no inkling as to how he could begin to explain himself to her, but he held one truth to be evident. No matter what the consequence, no matter what the future held in store for the both of them, he would not let her go. This was, quite possibly, the only chance he had to make her his. She was in his home, and as far as he was concerned, she was not going to leave until she belonged to him.

,')-'-,-'----

She awoke in a deep, feverish sweat after a tormented battle with her fever. After visions of swirling colors, switching patterns, and incessant words, she eased her way out of her own self-infliction and set up in the bed she had been in for the past week, clutching the sheets to her so tightly that the blood drained out of her hands. Conscious of her actions, she loosened her grip and stared at her hands, whiter than skeleton's. She realized with dismay that she was also incredibly famished, and had probably not eaten any solid food for a good number of days.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, allowing herself a few moments' rest after her exertion before she made an attempt to stand. It was a slow, agonizing process, but within a matter of minutes she was standing, her weak legs wobbling beneath her, her head reeling.

Just as she was about to attempt to walk, Erik entered, this time carrying a tray of something that smelled very much like food. As his smoldering gaze took in her sickly, formerly bed-ridden form, he slammed the tray onto a nearby footstool, crossing the distance between them and grasped her arms roughly, the tell-tale signs of anger washing over him.

"**What do you think you are** **doing**?" he hissed in her face, the tone of his voice causing her already-weak body to tremble even more.

"I – I'm sorry, I didn't-."

"Yes, Christine, that is correct, you did not think! Do you have any idea as to how ill you have been? Due to your own foolishness, you could have very well taken your own life unintentionally!" He all but pushed her onto the bed, his immense fury towards her boiling over his rationality.

"_My_ rashness? Might we compare my past actions to _yours_, perhaps?" she retorted, breathing heavily due to the endeavor of trying to both stand and fight against his arrogant persistance.

He ignored her last statement. "You will not leave this bed until I give you permission, is that understood?" His voice held all the power of the universe in it, its' daunting, condescending quality making Christine all the weaker in her resistance.

She repositioned herself on the bed, attempting to shield his eyes from gazing upon her improper dressing, realizing that she had most likely been wearing very little during her entire stay with him in his home. The thought made her blush, her coloring a mixture of mortification and anger. "Where are my clothes?"

"I could not have let you freeze to death in your soaked garments, could I? Would you rather I let them be and have you freeze to death?"

He said this with such scathing bluntness that she was both quieted, and, if possible, further exasperated. Yet, as she took in his words, she realized that behind the biting tone was the intention, and she knew that it was out of fear for her safety that he had done what had to be done. He was right; she would have frozen had she stayed in her wet clothing.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Christine murmured a quiet 'thank you', turning her attention to the tray he bore moments earlier. "What was that you were holding before?"

He met her eyes and blinked a few times, then moved sullenly to the tray and brought it back to her. Upon it were a few slices of cold meat, a loaf of soft bread, a bowl of fruit, some cheese and a mug of tea. He placed the tray on her lap, giving her easy access to the food he knew she must have needed desperately.

She ate quickly and messily, aware of his eyes upon her and yet uncaring. The nourishment was soothing to her frail body, as she was sure she had lost too much weight from her illness. When she finally finished, she began to fidget with the traces of the meal she left behind, still unsure of his presence.

"If there is anything else you need, do not seek it yourself. Call for me and I will come immediately." He made to leave, but when she stopped him with her impulsive words, he could not help but react.

"Why are you doing this, Erik? What is there for you to gain by restoring me back to health? Our arrangement has failed. You owe me nothing." Her voice was still incredibly weak, but it held all the strength she was capable of.

"Rest, Christine, you are still weak."

"I will not be able to rest until you give me an explanation. I will not stay here against my will."

"You **will** rest for now, Christine. We will talk about anything you wish later. For now, you must do what I say and try to regain your strength." His voice was once again commanding and stern, holding all authority over the conversation, and, Christine knew, not wanting to have it any other way.

He picked up the tray from her lap and left, closing the door behind him with a tug full of vigor, solidifying his words from before.

Christine simply stared at the door for a moment in resentment, hating herself for being so unthinking and, in result, putting herself into such a comprising situation. Hating Philippe, for it was his being the boorish man that he was that caused her strife. And hating Erik, simply for being the arrogant, unrelenting creature that he was, unsatisfied until she cooperated with him to no fault.

,')-'-,-'----

Took a bit longer to finish this chapter. I wanted the first experience in the lair to be explanatory, yet move along. But, low and behold, we still have many emotional twists and turns for Erik and Christine yet! Also, I have to explain what Raoul and Philippe must think, not to mention Sorrel. But we'll get to her a little later. It'll be mostly Erik and Christine for a while, so hang tight!

And, as always, review. You guys are amazing at that.


	26. A World Where The Daylight Dissolves

"There are things around us and about of which I can render no distinct account – things material and spiritual – heaviness in the atmosphere – a sense of suffocation – anxiety – and, above all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant."

**- "Shadow – A Parable", E.A.P.**

,')-'-,-'----

The streets of Paris were steadily becoming darker and darker with each passing day. Workers would be sent home at a much earlier hour as dusk approached the urban playground of the bourgeoisie with a welcomed sigh from the laborers, while the employers heaved grunts of frustration at the declining length of time they were due. Yet when the sun set, the players of wealth emerged, carrying with them all the haughtiness they possessed and the knowledge of their well-meaning yet indifferent perspectives on the circumstances of the lower classes who were heading home for the night. To the common people, the day began when the sun rose. To the nobility, however, it began when the sun fell.

She observed this with calculated scrutiny, measuring the worth of those who passed within her presence. She sat a good distance away from the populous, taking due pleasure in the fact that she was part of something much larger than anything the night could offer her, something more delicious than any tidbit of gossip could produce.

To her, it had always been something short of competition. No, not quite competition; it was a game of survival. Her entire life had been composed of predeterminations of her future, following with a series of catastrophic failures on her part to see her fate play out. Her past held a deep, penetrating fear and hurt that shaped her character, and because of such a past, all her assumptions about love and compassion had been corrupted. There was nothing left to give any such hope of redemption in that cause. All that was left was a savage craving for revenge, for a decision of her own that would give her the power she so desperately wanted, to finally feel controlling and not controlled. To feel wanted, needed, was no longer a desire. The only desire she sought was triumph.

That was what she had accomplished. That was what she had succeeded in. Her ultimate triumph over Christine Daae was a symbolic winning, to be true, but it held a certain dominance over all other ideas in her mind that it gave her glorious gratification. Philippe had played his part, as had Raoul; the both of them had succeeded in doing the one thing she was sure would stand in her way of success. Yet, in the end, it did not matter how the plan was executed. All that mattered was that she had won; the endless battle for endurance had ended. The only thing that was left was the benefits her endeavors would reap. And those, she was hungry for. Those, she would enjoy without regrets.

,')-'-,-'----

The next few days passed by without much happenstance. Christine was confined to her bed, chiefly because she had a near encounter with death, and partially because she knew that if she tried to escape, she would be prevented from doing so.

She saw very little of Erik during those weak days of slipping in and out of tormented slumber. All she could remember during that period was Erik entering her room once or twice during the day, removing and replacing old sheets, administering food and remedies, checking her body temperature, making brief comments about her condition, or asking her simple questions to ascertain she was sensible.

The one thing that kept her rational mind from diverging out of her control was her ambition. She was motivated to not let him think her weak, to not allow him to think for a single moment that he had complete control over her. If he attempted to reposition her pillow, Christine would wave him away. If he offered to assist her in sitting, she would give him a long, hard look and turn away. Even when she felt guilt after doing so, she also felt her cruelty to be justified. Erik had betrayed her. It was as simple as that.

Yet, in her heart, she felt a growing tenderness towards him that could only be matched by her growing revolt. As much as she cursed him for kidnapping her to the prison he had locked her in, she privately thanked him for rescuing her. In a way, he reminded her greatly of her father. He was kind, gentile, strong. He had a presence that comforted, but when you were stubborn, he could match your stubbornness ten-fold. In many ways, he was an un-breakable barrier, a shield to all inner thoughts and emotions.

Not that she wanted him to make himself known to her. All she wanted was to escape him, to be free. And not just of him, but of everything.

She was weary of being looked upon as a possession, a thing that was to be manipulated and altered, to be used at will and held only for a brief moment before set aside. She was weary of being proper, of being told what to do, what to say, and how to say it. As much as she feared being alone, she almost preferred it to the total control others had over her life.

And _he_ was no different. He was just like everyone else.

Only…he was _frighteningly_ not. He was different because he was dark.

She had seen enough to him to know that he was not someone to be trifled with. She had seen that very presence in his eyes. The presence that burned, craved, lusted. It knocked the very wind from her throat when she realized it to be what it was. It masked itself as anger, hiding behind pupils of coal that smoldered within him. She first saw it that fateful day, the one when he was discovered to be what he truly was. She knew it now more than she had then, and it was the most motivating factor for her escape.

He desired her.

Raoul had been guilty of it as well. There were times when they would be together, late into the night, and he would reach out for her unconsciously. She had looked upon him with a mixture of fear and guilt, knowing that he would never attempt to touch her without her permission, without their status being man and wife. Despite his restraint, his desire had been unmistakable. His need, however, was feeble in comparison to Erik's. The desire she witnessed when he looked at her was powerful and all-consuming. It was a beckoning that she felt rather than saw, as his eyes made contact not only with hers, but with her soul as well. She heard the music behind his desire, and knew that he was using his inner magic to draw her to him. She had been frightened, and still was, for she could not make it go away. He would use it against her again. It was only a matter of time.

This was the reason she recoiled from him. The reason she hid her fear behind her loathing. If she let him see any weakness, no matter how slight, he would use it to his advantage to seduce her mind, and she could never let him do that.

She had to be strong. It would take more than mere persuasion to escape his clutches. She saw past his barrier, and knew what his plans were. The only thing left to do was to outwit him. Make him trust her.

Then….then, she would leave him forever. No turning back.

,')-'-,-'----

He had been sitting before his organ, staring insolently at the keys, at the unfeeling, cold surface that he so cherished but in that moment detested. It was an object of his devotion, his unrelenting passion and the central instrument in his wide range of musical talents. Yet, it could not speak, it could not console, it could not smile at him. No, it did these things only metaphorically, not like a human could. Not like _she_ could.

He was pondering these thoughts when a frail, female voice echoed through the hallway down to his music room. It's torn, bruised resonance was death to his ears, for he knew that he, in part, had created the warm, golden sound that erupted from that throat naturally. Even in her ill state, however, he could hear the pristine clarity and crystalline quality of the voice located within her alabaster throat. The tone of the voice, however, sounded needy. He allowed himself only a brief moment of contemplation at the sound before making haste towards the direction of her room.

"Christine?" While he kept his pace graceful and with the pretense of unhurriedness, he knew that she recognized the panic in his voice as readily as he recognized the weakness in hers. He came within an arm's distance of her bed, but made no move to come any closer.

"I'm sorry, Erik…it's just that…well…" she hesitated, lowering her chin to her chest and, from what Erik could see, attempting to compose herself so that he would not witness her limitation. "I have not been out of this bed in quite a long time and I was wondering if I had your permission…"

He had a hard time of pealing his eyes away from the sad, shrunken look of hers. There were unshed tears of shame and - what was that other meddlesome emotion he so detested seeing? – sadness. He felt little sympathy in viewing sadness in others, but in Christine, it seemed to be wrong. Horribly wrong. _No! _he told himself. _I brought her here to make her happy! She was supposed to be happier because I snatched her from that fool of a boy! _

_I snatched her…_

_Oh God, she hates me, doesn't she?_

"Oh, Christine…" he murmured softly, taking a step towards her. "I am sorry for keeping you here so. Your health was very poor, my dear. You must understand the concerns most heavily weighed upon my mind."

She nodded understandingly. "I do understand, Erik. But I've been attached to this mattress for days on end, and I am restless. I need to move around, if only a little."

"Of course, my dear, of course. Would you like some assistance?" Here he felt uplifted, as if they shared something new they had uncovered. An abhorrence of being restless, of being sentenced to take no action and sit around idly when there is much to be done.

She shook her head, swung the sheets from her wobbly, sun-deprived legs, and swung them over the side of the bed. She looked at him sheepishly, blushed slightly, and made to stand. As soon as she did so, however, she immediately stumbled. Erik came to her side at once, helping her to her feet, grasping her by the arms. He could feel her breath, warm and unsteady upon his neck, and was unnerved by the feelings it arose in him. _Not now, _he berated himself. _For God's sakes, she is all but invalid!_

He heard her grunt uncomfortably, and immediately made to move her to sit again. "No," she commanded forcefully, clenching her teeth against the pain he imagined she would be feeling shooting up and down her legs. "I won't give up so easily." _Ah, if only you knew I would but do as well! _"Let me stand alone."

"Christine…" he warned cautiously.

"Please Erik," she entreated, looking into his face with determination. "I must do this."

Slowly, yet hesitantly, he moved away from his patient, allowing her to stand free of his aid. She was shaking, to be true, and her pale face was contorted with forcefulness and agitation at herself, but she was standing. It was foolish of him to suddenly feel angry at her, but he knew it as the only way to defend himself from giving into weakness. From giving in to tears.

"Do you _now_ see the consequences of your futility? Had you the common sense of that which your gender entails you, you might have known that we are steadily approaching the winter months, and a single robe will not sufficiently clothe you!" He knew he was being irrational, that he was rambling due to his anger, while somewhat aimed at her, but mostly towards himself. _Stop while you are ahead, Erik, before she withdraws from you completely. _But he could not. It was like an addiction, this torture he inflicted upon her. His cruel words were but a drug he fed upon to make himself feel all the wickeder, to make certain that he really was the monster that stared back at him in the mirror. The monster she surely thought him to be.

"Impertinent child, I have good reason to let you on the streets now, in this poor state! But feel gratitude, Christine, when you are lying in that bed of comfort that I have provided you with. Who else would take you in when you are lying unconscious in the streets? Who else would care to bring you back to health? You must always remember that it is Erik alone who will always come to your aide. And you, you who would abandon me for the sake of ignorance!"

She fell against the wall in her surprise, clutching at her chest to prevent her heart from being thrown onto the floor, as his outburst was clearly unheeded.

"I think we both know that Raoul and Philippe were not lying when they said that you were indeed the _spectacle_ of the opera world." Her voice was not the gentle, song-like voice it usually was, but a deeper, darker hostility lived within it. "Were the ballerinas lying when they said they heard gruesome stories of a man who swathes himself in night, who hides in the rafters and raises chaos? Were they lying when they swore that they heard voices, cackling evilly and frightening as they tried to sleep? These are not falsehoods, Erik. They are truths."

"_Truths_, are they? What would you call the tale the good Count told his brother, who then imparted to you the truth of my identity? Had it not been an idea, a misconception, when you had known me for so long and they not know me at all?" He threw back his head and gave out a harsh laugh, bitter and disgusted. "You would still pin my wrongdoings to my soul when I have lifted you back to your feet? When I have given you back your song?"

She looked at him then for a long time, her eyes on the verge of watering and her throat constricting with unseen emotion.

"Here," he said, turning to her bed and throwing upon it a blank envelope with a slip of paper, a quill and a pot of ink. He looked not at her, but at the paper upon her bed. "The Vicomte de Chagny has just recently warranted a missing persons report in search of his soon-to-be bride. You had better write to him telling him where you are." His eyes were scorching as he related this information to her, reading into any reaction she would have. Her eyes widened drastically, yet she said nothing. He continued. "You are to tell him that you are staying with your Mama Valerius, as you are frightened of your upcoming nuptials, and need to take leave of his presence that you may contemplate your decision. Tell him not to see you." He was once again detached, apathetic, and forceful. The commanding tone that she had heard in his voice during lessons and such had returned.

"One other thing," he said sharply.

"Yes?" she asked quietly, staring at his turned back with a mixture of desperation and depression.

"We will resume your vocal lessons, here, in my home. As you rebuild your strength you will rebuild your voice. I will not tolerate you losing what I have shaped for so long. Do you understand?"

She nodded her head dejectedly. "I understand."

He turned to her, his eyes glistening in their startling intensity. "Good, then. Write that letter, and I shall return for it."

,')-'-,-'----

I had this chapter written for a long time, but was apprehensive upon releasing it. Do forgive me for holding out on for so long!

We'll soon be hearing from Raoul's point of view, though not directly. Or, perhaps, we will. I shall have to decide. In any case, do you think he will believe Christine's letter? Or, more so, do you think Christine will obey Erik's will?

Stay tuned!!


	27. Notes Of the Most Amiable Nature

"_An appeal to one's own heart is, after all, the best reply to the sophistry just noticed. No one who trustingly consults and thoroughly questions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the entire radicalness of the propensity in question."_

_- _**The Imp of the Perverse, E.A.P.**

,')-'-,-'----

Several members of the Sûreté had flown through the de Chagny residence the morning after Christine's disappearance, each harboring within the house of dreariness and stillness for only an hour or two before deeming the place too morbid for their own liking. Everything and anything that resided in the house, and everything and anything that felt a need to enter, felt a permeating feeling of helplessness and loss that was given off by the young master.

Raoul had not slept for the several nights in which Christine had been missing, and if he had, it had been against his own will. He couldn't think properly, couldn't breathe properly with the knowledge that she was gone, and he could not help– for it was in his nature – to feel that it was his fault that she was missing.

The authorities had nothing to go on, as Raoul and his brother could not supply any useful information, making it so that their aimless search had no direction whatsoever. When asked if there was anyone who might have some reason to take Christine, only one name came to mind, and as ready as Raoul was to supply it, Philippe had specifically forbade him from doing so.

"_For naught, Philippe! That madman is roaming the streets, and we **both** know his obsession with Christine! For all we know he could have her right now."_

"_Raoul, **you** must think rationally. How do you suppose they would react if you were to tell them that the only suspect you could think of who would harm Christine is a ghost who taunts ballet rats? Honestly, Raoul, there isn't even **evidence** that she has been kidnapped! For all we know, she could have run away!"_

"_That's **preposterous**, Philippe. Christine would never run away without leaving some sort of note or clue. She knows better than that. She knows how much she would be hurting me by doing so."_

Yet again, however, Raoul had his doubts. What if Christine really had run off, and was simply too scared to leave any sort of note, afraid of what he might think or feel? He had noticed lately, ever since her loss of faith in her mentor, a distinct distractedness and distance in her brown eyes. After all, the poor girl had been betrayed. The man had deliberatedly manipulated her faith in her father's promise for his own doing!

If **man** was even a suitable word for what that _creature_ had done to her. If Raoul had his chance, he would let that monster pay for destroying Christine's hopeful and lively mien.

While these thoughts nagged at the back of his mind, the most trying were the ones that were most crushing to his heart. The love of his life, his Christine, was somewhere in Paris, most likely defenseless, scared, and alone. He had vowed, long ago, to be the sole protector of her, to cherish and be true to her for all his days. And he had kept to his word, up until now. How foolish had he been to even let her out of his thoughts for but a mere moment!

But she hadn't been out of his thoughts. He had become certain of that when he was arguing with Philippe that fateful night. They had both been so laden with the endeavor of trying to reclaim her that neither had brought up the issue of their confrontation since then. Still, it irked Raoul that Philippe would try as hard as he currently was in finding her. Did he really intend for Raoul to find another woman to marry, or was it simply a façade?

The more Raoul thought upon the subject, the more it puzzled him. Why would Philippe put so much effort into convincing him that Christine was not right for him, when he gave every indication that he cared for the girl as if she were already his sister-in-law? True, he had treated her somewhat lowly when within her presence, but his actions in trying to find her seemed to symbolize a much deeper, meaningful attachment than he had not previously put on. It was as if, below the arrogance and pomposity that Philippe's character protruded, he had felt all along that Christine was the charming, gifted, amazing woman that Raoul saw in her every day.

This thought, and this one alone, gave him some comfort in the days ahead in which she was not within his presence. Every day that followed was a new pain to the chest, a new loss. Yet he did not give up faith, nor did he rest a single moment while she was gone. He would be patient, waiting for Christine to help him in his search for her, but he was ever restless.

The city of Paris would not sleep until she was found.

,')-'-,-'----

Moments after Erik had left her presence, she could not seem to find within her facility the fiber to peal her eyes away from the few items that he had thrown onto the bed in his fury. They lay there quite innocently, as if they were nothing out of the ordinary. In this most peculiar and awful predicament that she was in, they held the very power in their small capacity to set her free - or imprison her.

A thousand maddening thoughts seemed to run through her mind, one after the other, each as inconceivable as the one before it. She felt, all of a sudden, very weary, and dragged her feet - heavy as they felt – over to the bed, throwing herself upon it in total and complete exhaustion. The items on the bed fell to the floor in reaction to her unbalancing action, to which she readily scooped them up and placed them upon her lap.

She had several options.

The most obvious one was that she would write her letter to Raoul, as Erik had demanded, and she would tell him that she had been kidnapped by the infamous Phantom of the Opera. As soon as she considered this, however, her mind lashed its scorching tongue at her, reminding her that anything she put in the letter would probably be read by Erik himself. She did not know very much about him, but she certainly knew that he was clever, and much more so than herself.

Another option would be to simply obey his commands and write the letter as he saw fit.

This, however, was bashed by her mind as well. Her means of escape, at this point, were very minimal, as Erik was both furious with her and entirely suspicious of all actions and words she might produce. This letter, as simple as it was in theory, was the key to her escape, and she could not let the opportunity slip by without consideration.

A compromise between the two options seemed most reasonable, she thought to herself, but was by far the most difficult. She would have to find a way to integrate some sort of code that Raoul would readily understand and Erik would not be able to interpret.

_But how?_

She looked down at the sheet of paper. There was only one sheet. _No room for mistakes, _she mused darkly. _I must find something to practice on._

Looking around the room, her eyes stopped on the desk that had been sitting idly in the corner of the room, unnoticed by her until now. Slowly and carefully, she picked herself up from the mattress and walked, without much ease, to the desk, leaning heavily upon the wooden frame as she searched the surface with her eyes. Finding nothing to her advantage, she immediately began to search through the drawers, picking apart the furniture to find her prize. Her eyes lit up when she found several sheets of paper. She took a seat in the desk chair and began practicing.

_Dearest Raoul, _it began.

She bit her tongue. Would an endearment of Raoul further Erik's wrath? She had to write as if Erik were analyzing every meaning, every syllable. She would have to take the utmost care in what she said.

_Raoul,_

_I write to you so that I may save you from the concern I fear you are experiencing. Do not be frightened for me. I am staying with Mama Valerius for the time being. She has most generously welcomed me with open arms, as she knows how nervous and insecure I feel in this new situation. I know not how to escape from my feelings of insufficiency, and I am afraid I cannot come back to you until I know what is going to happen to us. _

_Please do not think I am forsaking our childhood when I say that I cannot trust you, because I cannot trust myself, or anything else for that matter. Do not come for me, I do not need to be rescued._

_Christine_

She examined the letter she wrote on the scrap piece of paper intently, searching for anything that Erik might see as suspicious. After rereading it for the third time, she deemed it appropriate, and began immediately to write it onto the real letter that Erik would send. Feeling emboldened by her sudden act of rebellion against her masked captor, Christine sealed and signed the letter and made her way out of the room she had been confined to.

Her first impression of Erik's home from outside the bedroom she had come to know intimately was that it was dank, dreary, and ominously dark. It was most likely night, owing to the fact that several candles were lit along the corridors, and the only sound she could detect was the shirking sound of pen against paper, scratching viciously away.

Suddenly, her ears picked up another sound, this time the beautiful and ethereal sound that she naturally associated with her teacher. Its sweet melody gave way to the memories of days in which she had been his pupil and he her instructor, the days in which she knew the realm of music in its complete and cascading entirety.

Those days, however, were far behind. Now, he was simply her capturer, and she his prisoner. She could not let herself become distracted from the task at hand.

Approaching the sound, she could not help but let herself be lost in it. It was undoubtedly the most melodramatic piece she had heard from the violin - despite the instrument's sad nature - playing a soft, heart-rending song that reminded Christine greatly of a requiem. Yet, it was unlike anything Christine had ever heard before in its intoxicating sweetness, the rich notes falling and fading with each gasp of air the instrument took in before progressing to the next movement. She watched rather than felt her feet move of their own accord to the room in which the sound was being constructed, and also, to the man who instructed the music from the instrument.

She entered the room quietly, surprised that she had found the man she was searching for so easily. The room was quite large in comparison to her bedroom, and was easily – she would predict, seeing as music was Erik's life - the most beautiful and splendorous room in Erik's home. Her eyes landed on Erik's turned back, his masked cheek resting lightly on the violin, his shoulders relaxed in utter contentment. She hated to deny him this moment of pure pleasure, as she was sure it would greatly displease him to be interrupted from it, so she satisfied herself with watching him play.

After a minute or so, Erik ended the song on a low, long note, allowing the bow to be pulled gently across the strings with a feather-light touch. He turned around and made no motion of surprise at seeing Christine in the room. His blank mask was a slate of impassiveness, reflecting the cold regarding look with which her startled, and somewhat frightened eyes met his. Feeling baffled by his calm exterior, it empowered her to speak first, however meek she felt.

"I have finished the letter, Erik."

He set the instrument down in its velvet case, turning his gaze not upon her but upon the object of his magnificence.

"I thought I had told you that I would collect the note myself." He said this not with a tone of malice, but rather with a curious discontentment that she also associated with his keen intelligence.

"You did, but I thought I might save you the trouble and deliver the message myself," she answered calmly, albeit somewhat nervously.

His golden glare latched onto her eyes, knocking the very wind, not for the first time, out of her. "How very thoughtful of you, Christine. However, as I distinctly remember asking you to stay to your bed, you might recall that you are still not well, and it is _indeed_ surprising that you have traveled thus far without collapsing." His tone was somewhat patronizing, forcing her to avert her eyes without meaning to.

Staring down at her feet, clad in nothing but her flimsy stockings, she attempted to put on a brave face, one filled with spirit and determination. She lifted her head, hoping that he might find some seriousness within her, as well as forgiveness. "I was not sure which would anger you more, my defiance of your wishes or my failure to obey your demand, so I simply chose one before the other and hoped for the best."

While subdued anger still glittered in his eyes, a mixture of curious amusement and surprise seemed to twinkle there as well. "You would assume I am so wrathful that I would incur my fury on a weaker being, despite the fact that she disobeyed my command?"

Seeing as how her quip had saved her from his wrath, she continued on, hoping to match her wit against his in an attempt to gain an upper hand. "You misunderstand my intentions, Erik. I simply assumed that you would use your berating tone to silence me into obedience and that I would wait for the moment you would bring me into good graces once more."

She knew she had made an inference that was extremely close – indeed, too close, perhaps – to what Erik's temper might have resulted in. She watched as he studied her, his eyes dulling from their former spark of intensity, and, to her amazement, witnessed the closer expression to a smile that she had ever imagined from him.

"And here I presumed I was unpredictable as well as charming."

Christine allowed herself a small smile of innocent triumph, realizing with grand satisfaction that she had tamed the beast, if only for a little while.

,')-'-,-'----

When Erik had fled the girl's room in search of solace, he hadn't expected the approaching creature that had emerged – at long last – from her room. He had detected her presence from the very moment she stepped into the room, yet resignedly took no notice, not wanting to frighten her further, much less frighten her away for good. He let himself simply allow his music to bind him in its intoxicatingly addictive essence, soothing the inner demons he was battling, even here in his domain.

_Damn the girl, why did she have to be so incredibly _unattainable?

Despite the fact that he was keeping her, for lack of a better word, _hostage_, he knew he could not have her. As a result, his rage and frustration were hard to keep at bay, as he was caught within his own trap based on hours of fruitless devising. Surely this was some great tangle of the Fates' strings that had led them here? It could not have been by coincidence that Christine had landed unconsciously on the Parisian street, and that Erik had been watching her at that very moment?

No, it had to be some greater purpose. Some other plot that was taking place to lead her here. To be true, he found he did not mind so much as to how it happened, but as to how he could keep it permanent, rather than temporary. The notion, he knew, of course, was ridiculous. She was engaged, and he was estranged; it was as simple as that. The boundaries that kept them apart were endless, and Erik, despite his mind's admonitions, knew it in his heart.

Yet she was here, at this very moment, standing only a few feet behind him and fidgeting as he had often witnessed her doing.

It would take great tenderness and patience to win her trust once again, and that in itself was a daunting task. He had great doubt that it was even possible, but he also had a portion of hope. From where this hope emerged, he did not know. Yet, when he slowly took in the image of the young, slightly pale and sickly-looking woman before him, he felt his heart lift, if only a little.

He still had one advantage over the de Changy boy.

And that advantage reflected in the awestruck eyes of his ingénue.

,')-'-,-'----

Okay, I know you're all going to want to slaughter me, but hey, I've had a bit of a writer's block?

Can you blame me?

I shall try to update more frequently, I promise. I know it's such a beastly thing for me to do, making you wait so long, but this chapter, for some amazingly annoying reason, has given me quite the bit of trouble.

I hope you'll find it within you to forgive me and send a little comment by way?

Thank you, and a belated Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!


	28. Why, Do You Ask?

"_Divulge the secrets of thy embassy  
__To the proud orbs that twinkle – and so be  
__To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban  
__Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"  
_- "**Al Aaraaf**", E.A.P.

,')-'-,-'----

Tension, clouded heavily with indecision, seemed to frame his livelihood. He was torn between two extremes: one that his nature entailed him, and the other that he was slowly taking on, despite his best attempts. It was the latter of the two that was the most difficult to suppress, and, by far, the harder to explain. Like all other unsuitable, troubling matters in his life, he discarded them, one by one, watching them fly off, as if they had no meaning whatsoever.

However, it appeared that now, for the first time, he wished that the admiration that shone in the eyes of the one person he cared for would last, even if that meant that he had to discard his reserve, and more so, his suspicions of and contempt for the human race.

Yet it was the crueler of the two extremes with which he regarded her.

"I have finished the letter, Erik," she said shakily, her voice holding but a slight trace of trepidation.

"I thought I had told you that I would collect the note myself."

"You did, but I thought I might save you the trouble and deliver the message myself."

_Loathsome thing that you are, Erik, for making such an angel sound so ashamed… _

He could not help but cringe slightly at the unmistakable, yet controlled annoyance in his voice, so quietly cruel that the girl had great bravery to stand and face him, as if he were…as if he were…

A _man_.

"How very thoughtful of you, Christine. However, as I distinctly remember asking you to stay to your bed, you might recall that you are still not well, and it is _indeed_ surprising that you have traveled thus far without collapsing."

She nodded sadly, as if he were right to punish her thusly with his magnificently patronizing voice. After all, she was still weak, an observation Erik lamented in witnessing.

Her intentions had been kind, even as she knew the outcome of doing so, he later mused. _She is beginning to conceive just how great a beast I am._ "How very thoughtful of you, Christine. However, as I distinctly remember asking you to stay to your bed, you might recall that you are still not well, and it is _indeed_ surprising that you have traveled thus far without collapsing."

Being the bashful creature that she was, she accepted his criticisms gracefully, a trait Erik was both relieved and irritable over, as he wished that no other man - save himself - would ever speak so condescendingly towards her. She did not deserve such treatment. Yet for every time that he punished her with his words and tone, he punished himself tenfold.

"I was not sure which would anger you more, my defiance of your wishes or my failure to obey your demand, so I simply chose one before the other and hoped for the best."

He looked at her in surprise. His irritability was offset momentarily by his hurt, acknowledging the truth behind her rather keen insight.

"You would assume I am so wrathful that I would incur my fury on a weaker being, despite the fact that she disobeyed my command?"

Once more, the will that Erik had seen before rose again, willing to stand against the pillar of fear and lift its small eyes to his own. "You misunderstand my intentions, Erik. I simply assumed that you would use your berating tone to silence me into obedience and that I would wait for the moment you would bring me into good graces once more."

Erik was shaken by her last comment. True, he had noticed the strength and ability within the dormant regions of her soul, but most surprising of all was the fact that her wit challenged him. He knew her to be intelligent, but was Christine _clever_ as well?"

His displeasure vanished – she _was_ trying, was she not? Surely this was her way of displaying some sort of acquiescence to his ever-persistent presence? It was the littlest crumb, and he would take it gratefully.

She smiled to his response. The moment passed quickly, however, when his attention returned to the letter in her hand. "If you please, mademoiselle?"

Her smile wavered slightly, and she seemed a little paler to his sharp eye, but she did so without hesitation. He noted her reactions with interest, as well as concern, but decided to make show of the latter.

"It has been far too much excitement for one day, Christine. If you would return to your room, I shall fetch you some remedies and send this presently."

She nodded in concurrence and turned away, walking slowly back to her quarters. When her footfalls had dispersed, Erik looked at the letter with suspicion. Tearing the seal, mindful of not making any sound, his eyes scanned the letter for any detection of betrayal. He reread it several times. Some of the words were ambiguous, but he found himself bound to his decision. He would send the letter – had he not said he would? – after resealing it properly, and have the business done with. If her word was truly against him, how would the Vicomte suspect? The worst he would do would be to ask her guardian in person, only to find Christine had told him falsely; more so, she had lied. If anything were to come of the ordeal, it would be that the Vicomte would worry more. Yet however mad the obsession drove him, he would not find her. She was, after all, hidden, far, far from human eyes.

And in this tomb – his tomb – she would succumb.

,')-'-,-'----

The very next day, Erik had made the determination that Christine was well enough to leave her room for small intervals, with the mandate that she would not partake in any strenuous activity. This meant, to Erik's dismay, Christine would not be able to resume voice lessons until her respiratory system had strengthened. This, however, did not discourage him, for he set about right away to practice breathing exercises with her, in between administering draughts of herbs and drugs that, combined, slowly remedied her weakened state.

The overall mood, however, was quite tense. Christine appeared withdrawn, even while being compliant and at ease. Erik, on his part, was dubious and irritable once more. The fact remained that his suspicions of Christine's willingness gave an impression of hostile disappointment that even he could not comprehend, let alone Christine. Yet he could not admit his aroused distrust, for if he did it would be disaster. However, Christine gave him the opportunity to lash out, even when he would have her remain conceding and listless.

"Erik."

It was not a question, nor was it a statement. It was an insistence. Up until that moment they had avoided all communication that did not pertain to their current situation. Now, however, what had occurred could not be ignored any longer.

She emerged from behind him, causing him to turn his head to the direction of her voice. He noticed that for the first time since she arrived, she actually looked healthy, but overshadowing this fact was the determined and decided look upon her face.

"Is there something you need?"

She said nothing, only continuing to look at him in a strangely curious way. Slowly, she moved to sit on a chair facing him, so that they were sitting close, only not close enough so that it was uncomfortable. She sighed deeply, as if preparing herself for what was to come.

"I can't stay here any longer, Erik, you know that."

He said nothing, the hardness of his mannerism throwing a deadly quiet over the room.

"I need my freedom," she intoned, as if begging him to understand, but in such as way so that it was neither blunt nor obvious.

"Is that what you would call your occupation at the Vicomte's residence? Freedom? Rightly correct me if I am mistaken, Madam, but I am like to say otherwise." His voice was pure ice to the senses, as if first winter's wind had thrown itself upon the threshold of the soul and stood there a moment, its glory pervading in its advance to cause suffering.

She shook her head at the callousness of his tone, refusing to look into his masked face and see the animosity in his eyes. "That isn't fair."

His eyes blazed fiercely, ranging from the brightest tawny to the darkest onyx.

"_Indeed?_ Then perhaps you would allow me to demonstrate what _is_ fair?" Here he rose and leaned over her, showing her the entirety of his mask before her face. She did not shudder, yet her eyes widened considerably. "Is it fair that I am captive to this piece of fabric upon my misshapen face, a face that no one could glance upon without revulsion or abhorrence?" When Christine's eyes watered in surprise, he continued. "Oh yes, my dear, I am certain you have wondered, for I have seen you cast sidelong glances at my mask. I would ask that you do not try to see, for I am sure you would catch your death by doing so." His voice embodied Scorn itself, driving through the forces of his soul into the crevices of his tongue. He moved away from her, angrily pacing in front of her with an unholy air of malevolence.

"What is _not_ fair, Christine, is that I should have any semblance of normalcy denied me. That this _facade_ which everyone deems to call life is inaccessible, due to the fact that no one will tolerate my presence. Even you." At his last words, Christine could not but let her eyes search his pleadingly, for the sake of denying all he had said. Only, he would not look at her.

"Erik, please, that is not true -"

"Spare me any pity you harbor, Christine, I can assure you I will _not_ welcome it," he spat, turning away from her in disgust.

"I do not pity you, Erik. If I did, I would not have come to you and told you the truth."

He continued pacing, only not so fiercely as before but with merely a meaningful, yet agonized stride. His aura provoked such feelings of despair that it left the observer quite immune to unresponsiveness.

"I also respect you far too much to burden you with so trivial an emotion."

He turned to her, searching for any trace of dishonesty in her pale, resolute face. There was none.

"I have been honest with you, Erik. Please respect me as I have you and tell me the truth."

"What _truth_ do you **seek**, exactly, Madam?"

She looked down at her hands, silent for a few moments before she found the correct question to ask first. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He raised his eyebrows behind his mask, an action she could not see, yet he believed she could infer. "I would think that would be obvious, Christine."

"Not so," she murmured quietly. "What I ask is not why you didn't tell me after you began to instruct me, but why you did not tell me when we first met."

His body language reflected a look that she took as skeptic. "Do you honestly believe that there exists some reasonable way of telling you? Do tell, Christine, as I have contemplated this for many an hour and no solution had come to _my_ mind."

She blushed, realizing, he noted with quiet repugnance on his own part, the folly of her question. She cleared her throat, readying herself for the next question. "If you truly are…I mean…that is…" She shook her head desperately, her loose tongue fighting to say what was on her mind. "If you truly are who Raoul said you are…why take interest in the likes of me?"

Her words stung, but he recovered quickly and adeptly. "I suppose you could say I was curious."

"About what?"

"Whether or not you were truly talented. And capable, as well."

"Capable of what?"

Erik tried not to let his patience run thin, nor his tolerance, for that matter. She was pushing a subject that he would rather not discuss, for as long as he had a feeble hope, he would not admit his intentions.

"It may seem preposterous that I would even consider an appeal such as the one you made that first night, but after hearing you sing, I tried – ineffectively, mind you – to convince myself that you were untrained and emotionless. I could detect some technique, but any schooling that you had received had long ago been forgotten. I thought that perhaps, after hearing your voice, there might possibly be some hope of greatness yet. _This_, of course, was thought of _before_ I discovered you were about to become nobility," he added bitterly.

"As for being capable, I was doubtful. You were, after all, engaged at the time, thus disabling you from any prospect of a career."

"But you persisted," she commented, confused.

He said nothing, only looking at her, his thoughts unknown to her.

She lowered her eyes once more, and stood before him, silent. Then –

"Am I?"

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Am I capable?"

"Christine, that hardly –,"

"You would not have allowed yourself to waste your time on someone as useless as me had you not thought I had potential."

"Yes!" he roared, unable to any longer keep his anger at bay. "Are you satisfied, Christine? Have you sated your curiosity by knowing that you could have very well been one of the greatest divas to perform before Paris? Well?"

She shrunk from his outburst, sitting down once more and tucking her legs beneath her.

"You had a chance, the _greatest_ chance, to very well outshine any performer in Europe, had you the resolve to deny any earthly bonds and simply give yourself over to all that is Music. You once gave me hope that you would do so, but now I am convinced that you would rather marry a _Vicomte_ than have all France treasure you."

"You knew that I could not have done so Erik, for all that I would have wished to!"

"You must forgive me my doubts, for I have proof to the contrary," he said coldly.

She picked her head up suddenly. "Let me prove it."

He jerked his head sharply in her direction. "What?"

"Teach me once more. Let me try and make of myself something before the eyes of Paris. Let me show them the outcome of your brilliance."

"You speak like a child, Christine. What of your reputation? What of your Vicomte? What if he were to discover your partaking and learn that you are making a mockery of his engagement by beginning your marriage with a career? As a _singer_, no less?" His tone was derisive, blindingly scathing in its disbelief.

"If he cares, it will be his fault. He will have no one to blame save himself."

After saying this, the sparkle of defiance towards those who oppressed her took hold of another member, and broke off into some unarmed sadness that came wretchedly into the open. He knew she was thinking of the night she ran away, the night in which her precious fiancé had let his brother shower curses and shortcomings upon her name. He saw what Christine was doing behind her words. It was not only that she wanted this, for herself – she wanted revenge for what Philippe had said to Raoul about her. She wanted justice.

Erik smirked. There _was_ hope after all.

"You know of what you ask?"

She nodded. "I do."

"Very well," he said tonelessly, walking towards her with conviction. "Let us begin."

,')-'-,-'----

I know this looks a little strange to you now, but trust me, I know what I'm doing. I also know that at times I seem to be a little off when it comes to historical reference and accuracy, and if you note this, please tell me and I will do my best to correct my discrepancies.

I know I do not answer many of the questions you have, so as to ease a few of your worries, let me divulge: Philippe isn't a **horrible** person (well, alright, so he is a _little_), but the reasoning behind his character is mostly because he is pompous and he is over-protective. We will also be seeing in later chapters some of the reasoning behind Sorrel's character, as I believe that every person has a reason for being who, what, and why they are (even if it is just because they have bad genes).

Erik and Christine, on the other hand, are not going to be lovey-dovey right off the bat. Sure, there will be some scenes that will make your hearts fly, awaiting that 'happily ever after', but I do love to install drama. Expect the unexpected.

Next chapter will include some other points of view, including Raoul's, as I know some of you are interested in his.

Thank you so much for your reviews! Send me a quick comment, I assure you I am **most** obliged.


	29. In Dreams He Came

_"These shadows of memory tell, indictinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore me in silence down - down - still down - till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the descent. They tell also of a vagure horror at my heart, on account of that heart's unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me had outrun, in their decent, the limits of the limitless, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After this I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness - the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things."_

_-_ "The Pit and The Pendulum", **E.A.P.**

,')-'-,-'----

The repetitive tapping upon the hard, wooden floor of the stage had, to Madame Giry's immense relief, died away long ago, leaving only silence to echo off the walls within the Opera. The day had been a particularly long one, due to the fact that the company was preparing – torturously laboring, more like – for the newest production, _Les Hugeunots_. Everything, however, seemed to be against the company, as the show seemed to be running amuck. The chorus was atrocious, the orchestra was missing three of its chair members, and the actors were simply unpracticed. As for the ballet, they were horrific – _as usual_, the Mistress noted grimly – but it was not to be expected. The _corps_ knew their faults, as they were constantly reminded of such when their exercises were doubled, even tripled, after embarrassing practices.

Yet one improvement seemed obvious to the entire company, even if the improvement was only apparent to the ignorant and the blind.

The Opera Ghost was notably _absent_.

It drew many suspicions into the minds of the performers, and from those suspicions, rumors arose. _Where was the Ghost? Was he coming back? Was he planning something particularly dreadful for his return?_

And, above all others:

_Was there ever a Ghost **at all**?_

Those who knew better, such as Madame Giry, could owe the Ghost's disappearance to many theories, but none knew better than the Ballet Mistress of the comings and goings of the Phantom. Indeed, ever since the arrival of the Ghost – or herself, whichever had appeared first, she was unsure – she had kept a steady, if not namable watch over the Ghost. She knew his habits, his pleasures, his displeasures, and she could even detect his presence when he was close. However, she did not know him as she would have liked to, as he was still an unpredictable and dangerous character, to be sure. In her time, the Ghost had caused many a troublesome circumstance, putting the entire company back in terms of rehearsal for several days. Yet without the Ghost's insistence and careful ministrations, the company would most certainly not be as creditable and profitable as it was.

However, even with all these missing factors considered, the fate of the next production was not the foremost worry on Mdm. Giry's mind.

Few had not heard about the disappearance of one Christine Daae, the fiancée of the Vicomte de Chagny. It had been quite the intrigue in the Opera world, as many had seen the young girl arriving to and leaving from the Opera, speaking to few and appearing anxious and distant. According to the reports of the ballet rats, Mademoiselle Daae was a strange girl, seen sneaking around the Opera House with no apparent reason, and searching shadows for a presence that was simply not there. From the very beginning, anyone who had observed Christine in the months before her disappearance would have labeled her 'odd'.

Despite this fact, many were still ruffled, even upset by the disappearance. Not only were there multiple searches for her around the city, but there were very few who did not know of the girl's plight and the worries of the de Chagny family. It was made known to all that award money was available to anyone who had helpful information towards the investigation, and though many seized the opportunity, the whereabouts of Christine Daae remained a mystery to all.

Yet what was startling about the disappearance of the young girl was that her vanishing act had occurred only days after the last letter from the Ghost. In his last letter to the managers, he had stated his last wishes for the production, asking upon them to obey his usual commands - namely, his box and his salary. His instructions for the production, however, were few, and were not as intensified, or as negative as usual. The managers had rejoiced, saying the Ghost was finally withdrawing his hand.

Madame Giry, on the other hand, had only become uneasy.

Then, as if by the oddest of coincidences, Christine Daae had gone missing only a few days later. Suspicions running high on Mdm. Giry's part, she immediately set off to Christine's 'dressing room', the room in which she and the Ghost – or Erik, as _she_ knew him by – had conversed on more than one occasion. Hearing no sound from the other side of the door, her suspicions were not quieted, only magnified. Having no solid evidence, nor clues as to the truth of the matter, Madame Giry simply evaded the discussions over the Ghost and the girl, telling herself that what she suspected was simply not so, and that he would never go so far as to kidnap the girl into his home.

_Or would he?_

Madame Giry knew Erik to be authoritative, manipulative, and controlling – but would he take another human being into captivity? She did not understand the schematics of their business relationship, but what of their personal one? Her impression had been that they shared a codependency that, at the time, seemed very curative, on **both** parts. Now, however, it seemed that one might have been more dependent than the other, a possibility which made her skin crawl with a reasonable amount of fear and guilt.

_He wouldn't do anything to harm her, would he?_

_Heaven help us all if you harm her in any way, Erik…_

Unlike the rest of the city, Madame Giry was _able_ to make a connection between the shared truancy of Christine Daae and the Ghost.

And she no longer approved.

,')-'-,-'----

_It was cold. The skin on the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably, as did the flesh at the ends of her fingers, both with the feeling of ill foreboding. The entire room – her room at the Chagny manor, she noticed with ephemeral bafflement – was swathed with shadows, deep, sinking pits of darkness that she knew would swallow her whole, should she step into them. She removed as far away from them as she could, moving towards the pool of moonlight that graced the center of the room, as if it were a stoplight from a stage._

_Suddenly, the door in front of her burst open, as if in some twisted plot in a previous story, a sense of déjà vu filling her consciousness. The object of objection was none other than Raoul, but a very different Raoul than she expected. She felt her own face light up when she recognized him, but felt dripping disappointment and trepidation slide down her face when she saw his eyes. They were brutal, callous…murderous. He was holding a pistol, and it was aimed between her eyes, the cold glint of steel momentarily blinding her vision, along with all of her other senses._

"_Wench," he said slowly, icily, **murderously**, "your betrayal shall cost you your life!"_

_He took a step towards her, reaching for the hair upon her head, and roughly grabbed a handful, forcing her face into his. At this proximity, his eyes seemed to flash like fire, and it was with some small feeling of relief that sparks did not actually fly out of them and burn her._

"_Worse than all of them! Him – **him** – her! They all betrayed me, but none as well as you!" _

"_Please, Raoul, it's me – what…?" she whimpered painfully._

"_**SILENCE**!" he roared, his voice filled with a deadly thirst for justice, for vengeance. _

_He then released her hair, his mien turning from lethal to sad and miserable. There was also a hint of dejection._

"_Did you not say it was _me_ you loved?"_

_The face and body of Raoul soon transformed into that of Lady Sorrel. Her fiery red head shocked the darkness like the flames of hell, as did her ruby lips and pale, gloriously beautiful demon face._

"_Little lamb," she cooed sweetly, "I _always_ win in the end." Her smug expression soon dispersed, as did the rest of her body, in a fading, inky black sea of moving particles that swirled and swirled and were no more._

_Out of the corner of her eye came a figure, a figure she recognized all too well. His entire form was of shadows, even his face, but his voice was the purest sound she had ever heard. It was as if the Greek god Cupid was before her. He was majestic and wise, loving and true, but she was not allowed to gaze upon his face. And as long as she did not look, she would always be free to believe it was what she wanted it to be._

_He held out a hand to her, a hand she knew would be warm, gentle, strong. She hesitated, tottering on uncertainty and fear._

"_I will never harm you," the angel-voice said._

_She took the proffered hand and was soon standing right in front of Him. He took her face in his hands, his warm, gloved, glowing angel-hands, and she saw the most beautiful eyes gazing into her face. Soft, golden, smoldering eyes…smoldering with love._

"_Oh, Christine…" he said breathlessly. "Why won't you give in to the music of the night?"_

"_I'm afraid," she whispered achingly._

"_Of what, ma petit?" he murmured gently._

"_Of being lost forever."_

_She felt her skin being caressed, the gentleness of his fingers sending strains of comfort and warmth up her spine. Suddenly, her entire body was glowing. She adored the feeling. It felt like _home

"_You will not be lost. For I shall always be there to find you and bring you back into the daylight."_

_Always…_

I will not lose you_…_

,')-'-,-'----

She awoke breathlessly. Taking great, shaking gulps of air, she forced the cool, stale oxygen into her lungs, squeezing her eyelids shut against the images that were replaying in her mind. Her heart was racing painfully in her chest, battering its' strong muscles against her ribcage, making her clutch at her chest in agony. The pain, however, was not only due to the physical aftershock resulting from her nightmarish dreams.

_Mon Dieu…_

She knew it to be nothing more than a dream, a nightmare…_but it had felt so real!_ Everything from the prickling in her fingertips to the sweet scent of sandalwood, the cold glare of the weapon, the strangely intoxicating sensation of Erik's gloved fingers on her neck…

_No!_

She didn't just think that. She couldn't have. _For heaven's sakes, he lied to you, betrayed you, **abducted** you…_

And yet…

Despite all the fabrications and deceptions that he had conveyed to her in their time as acquaintances, she knew that her mind hadn't lied to her when she dreamed of him. She could not remember a time when he had touched her in any way that was objectionable, any way that was unforgivable. He had plenty of opportunities to do so if he wished it, yet he hadn't demanded anything of her. Save for, of course, her singing.

_He was a monster! A beast! She **hated** him!_

But she didn't.

What she did feel towards him, however, was another subject entirely. And it was a subject she dared not breach in her current vulnerability.

Of all the wrongs he had done her, however, he had inflicted none so brutally upon her as the one she brought upon him. She made a promise to the one person she could not, she _should_ not have promised anything to. From the moment she had requested that he teach her to sing to the moment she asked him to let her prove herself, she had offered him a forbidden fruit that was not to be accepted. Granting him that part of her was like offering something completely and utterly intimate, as if she were sharing a piece of her that could only be shared with…well, with whomever she would share _all_ that was.

But she couldn't.

Such was the discomfiture her dreams had endowed her with. What was once perfectly clear and simple was now contorted and complex. What had once been had now become something she could not recognize. The feelings that grew within her heart were foreign and strange, and she had no way of labeling them. True, the very concept of Erik filled her with bitter rancor. The essence of him filled with her trepidation and intimidation. His presence…

Her face felt particularly balmy, as if a candle were being held to the tips of her scalp and warm, gooey wax was spilling down her head and onto her shoulders. _Repercussions of the fever,_ she mouthed to herself. But that wasn't the cause for the suddenness pressure of her pulse in her head, nor the slick, sweatiness in her hands.

It was _Him_.

She pushed her musings to the back of her mind, deigning them to be distracting and repressible. It was vital, now, more than ever, to stick to the plan of action she had engendered.

Successfully, she drew her line of thought in another direction, but that direction seemed even less desirable than the one before.

She owed the frightening episode that took place in her dream-world to be nothing more than the frightening embodiment of demons that haunted her conscience. It had been with remorse that she realized had thought of him less and less as her stay drew out longer in Erik's mysterious and indescribable home. She felt utterly exiled in his abode, yet even so, her thoughts did not retract to the details of her seemingly mundane life outside of his domicile. Her thoughts had concentrated solely on two things, and two things only: how she could possibly escape Erik's clutches, and the strange, sordid affair that had landed them in such a compromising situation.

Not to mention Erik _himself_.

As much as she tried to blame Raoul for driving her to take flight in the – she blushed to think of it now – reckless way she had, she knew it was none of his doing. He loved her, both her cruel dream Raoul and her youthful, noble Raoul. And deep within her heart, she knew she loved him, too.

_But was it the nature of _love_ that had driven her to seek a further source of happiness? _

_Of **fulfillment**?_

From her childhood, she had pictured her life to be shared and spent with Raoul, and only Raoul. There had been several occasions when she had wondered what it would have been like to be Raoul's wife, and had imagined it to be something like that of being a princess. He was her handsome, brave prince, her savior who would ride on a pure white steed to rescue her and whisk her into the sunset.

As she grew older, the fantasy died away, as did her father. When he reentered her life, Raoul had reentered as well.

'_**Erik** has never left you, no matter the times of trouble you faced'_, an annoying voice whispered in the back of her mind.

_Yes, but I have _known_ Erik for a far shorter time than I have known Raoul._

'_Indeed, but has Raoul stayed in your life for as long as Erik has?'_

_That's beside the point, _she shot back irritably.

'_Wrong again, Christine. That's _exactly_ the point.'_

"Enough," she whispered to herself. She was speaking to herself, a very dangerous pastime. _Much like a madwoman would do_, she thought, shuddering.

Without her consent, the images from the dream replayed in her mind. The most jolting of all the personas in her dream was that of Sorrel. She knew what Sorrel embodied, however.

The woman had been nothing but a snake, using the power she wielded to slink her way into the good graces of the de Chagny family. She was dangerous, and Christine was only too glad that her body had dissolved into inky nothingness, and had only existed in her dream-world for but a mere moment.

Guilt tore mightily at her heartstrings, as well as indecisiveness. She knew that she had crossed a bridge, and, inevitable as it was, she would have to go forth with Erik's proposals, or, rather her own. The only problem, however, was if she would be able to withstand the intensity he provoked from her, and if she could subdue the feelings his dream-self had spurned within her.

,')-'-,-'----

Am I making several of you wince with the direction this story is taking? Or do you like it? Honestly, it has fabricated into something even I hadn't foreseen, but that does not mean the ending will be changed. I may say now that I have the ending pretty well outlined in my head, and I have already begun the workings of a sequel. Yes, a sequel. I indubitably will write one, as it has an angle that is simply irresistible.

Alright, there's your cue. Send a little review my please, if you please.


	30. Twisted In Every Way

_"_Oinos_: But why, Agathos, do you weep - and why, oh why do your wings droop as we hover above this fair star - which is the greenest and yet most terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant flowers look like fairy dream - but its fierce volcanoes are like the passions of a turbulent heart._

Agathos_: They_ are_! - they_ are_! This wild star - it is now three centuries since, with clasped hands, and the streaming eyes, at the feet of my beloved - I spoke it with a few passionate sentences into birth. Its brilliant flowers are the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the passions of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts."_

_-_ **"The Power Of Words"**

,')-'-,-'----

The gentle, hissing breath of the candles and the far-off, sloshing drip of the lake beneath the Opera were the only sounds that accompanied his footsteps. He tread as quietly as possible, mindful of the sleeping angel that occupied the guest room, her long, contented sighs even now stirring the very air around him. He donned his cloak and other effects, giving the premises a once-over to ensure the safety and the explanation of his sudden departure. In accordance with the latter, he had left another of his infamous notes especially for her, sealed primly with his insignia to affirm its' sender, and a thorn-less white rose, an affirmation of the sender's innocence and pure intent. He was on the verge of exiting, via the boat that would take him across the lake, when a sweet, somnolent voice arose from behind him.

Christine.

He cursed quietly, yet indelicately, under his breath.

"Erik?" She sounded confused, and not a little bit hurt, his seemingly indifferent method of withdrawal an affirmation to what seemed to be his aggravation with her.

"Forgive me, my dear, I did not want to wake you."

She lightened considerably after this reassurance, the dark circles around her eyes from lack of sleep disappearing quite drastically in the wake of her brighter mood.

"I trust you slept well, _mon oiseau chanteur_?" It was his doting name, one he called her when he felt particularly proud or impressed with her during her lessons. They had used it rarely in their lessons before the…_incident_…and now, it seemed, Erik had taken to using the term more commonly.

She smiled, an action that instantly melted the icy cave that enclosed his heart, if only for small fragment of time. "Indeed, thank you." She paused, biting her lip in nervousness, something he both reviled and even more secretly, delighted in witnessing, especially before Christine said something he felt she was afraid to say. "If I may ask, Erik, where are you off to?"

He chuckled slightly, finding Christine's disquietude to be endearing. "I have business to attend to that involves venturing to the Opera. It is nothing of grave importance, my dear."

"May I go with you?"

His eyes immediately hardened, the mirth that was before having suddenly dissipated. "I'm afraid not, Christine."

The air was taut then, and had turned chilly and thin. Again, he cursed, only this time to himself and without speaking.

"Be prepared for our lesson upon my arrival."

Without a backward glance, he vanished, leaving nothing more than the resonance of his cloak sweeping the cold, stone floor.

,')-'-,-'----

_Fool!_

_Great, oaf of a fool that you are, Erik! You undoubtedly have scared her beyond that which can be repaired! _

_It is no help that you left her alone in your home, surrounded by the reminders of her cruel imprisonment…_

…_reminders of _my_ cruel imprisonment..._

He growled low in his throat, digging the oar into the raw, black depths of the lake with ease, pushing his way across the expanse in even less time than was usual. What had assuredly looked to be a promising evaluation of the happenings above ground manifested into one of his blackest moods, haunted with the thoughts that allowed him no rest, not while in the tortured dementia of sleep, nor even in the shallowest end of his consciousness.

He slunk, rather than walked through the catacombs beneath the Opera, hoping that his quick pace would annihilate the distressing matters that weighed upon his mind. In retaliation of his method of suppression, they would have no dormancy.

He could not have ignored the hurt, rejected look in Christine's eyes when he forbade – not with his words, at least – that she join him above ground. She did not even **know** that they were below the ground, and that fact alone humbled him greatly. Should Christine have any better understanding of Erik's presence circumstances, he feared she would view him no longer as she always had, even in their times of greatest feuding, not as a teacher, a friend, an _equal_, he dared to hope…but as a monster.

_Yes, it is better this way. She will learn more when she is ready._

_When _I_ am ready._

He was soon beneath one of the trapdoors leading to an area behind the stage that was draped thickly in shadows, so thickly that at any present time he could slip from beneath the floor and make his way in whichever direction he sought to journey.

Today, however, he was not to be greeted so commonly. As soon as Erik lifted himself from the door and stood aright, a cold, rigid voice barked angrily into his face from only a few inches beneath him and even fewer inches away from him.

"I need to speak with you – _now_."

"Now is not a good time for conversing, Madam," he acknowledged lowly, warning laced like arsenic in his words and in his manner.

"I will not pretend to care, _Monsieur Fantôme_. You _will_ come."

Incensed, Erik resigned to Madam Giry's will, following with a gait that could only be matched by that of a leopard, right to strike at any given moment.

She led him down a series of darkened hallways, passing only a few members of the company, of which Madam Giry quickly shooed before any had a chance to glance upon her male companion's face and imagine the atrocities that were being put into action. With each step Erik's ill-tempered disposition only exaggerated, as he was on a mission and was loath to leave Christine alone for too long in a house that was owned by a man who led a life of profligacy. Before he lent his anger to an extreme that he would later regret, they had reached their destination, an area in which even Erik knew no one would discover them.

Madam Giry quickly shuffled inside the darkened, abandoned props room, a room that was long ago discovered to have suffered a severe infestation – a mild term, as rats were common in the Opera, but none in which any had ever seen the likes - of rats, in whose stead had left only cobwebs and a fear of ever returning to reclaim the lost commodities. To Madam Giry's chagrin, some of the finer items had gone missing, presumably borrowed by the likes of one _O.G_.

"I would beseech that you convey your purpose, lest you heighten the level of my ire," Erik offered with a more constrained voice, despite his growing ill-mannerisms.

Madam Giry allowed no room for formalities, but simply drove to the point. "Have you _completely_ lost your mind, Erik? Kidnapping the fiancé of our _patron_! I could very well strangle you for the impetuousness and arrogance that you have displayed in the last few weeks. _Really_! Have you no mind to what you've done _at all_?" Her shrieks immediately reverberated around them, resounding like the vehement, wrathful howling of a spirit that was hell-bent on damning all in their presence. Such was the intensity and vexation that arose from the former prima ballerina that Erik was thrown aback by the procellous inclination of her speech that for a moment, he was stunned into silence. Then-

"I do not see how this is any of your affair, Madam," he replied tersely.

"Do not speak to me of _my_ affairs, Erik, when it is yours that I am questioning," she replied scathingly. "You are treading on dangerous grounds and I fear you are to fall through at any moment."

Erik laughed at this, a harsh, biting laugh that held all the savagery and spite in the world. Madam Giry shivered, involuntary, at the sound.

"My entire life has been a metaphor of walking upon dangerous ground. I would hope that someone who has some semblance of understanding of this, or, at the very least, of my general position, would not question my motives."

She bristled at his ostensible display of carelessness. "Erik, you must see reason in this! She is but a _girl_! An orphan, to be sure, but she has ties to the world, and _important_ ones at that! The Comte and his brother are scourging the city for her, as well as the Opera, and searches have been commissioned day and night. No leads are proving helpful. If no evidence defies the contrary, they have no choice but to take her for dead!"

Erik's grimace twisted into a bitter smile. "It were better that I let it be thought so."

Her eyes widened. She shook her head in disbelief, amazed at the inhumanity that he harbored at times. "Really, Erik, I would think that you of all people would not want her name to die."

He sobered considerably then, his eyes narrowing and his tone holder a sharper edge. "No one will _dare_ forget her name. Her name will lower itself from its place in heaven upon the lips of the hundreds of unworthy halfwits who call themselves patrons of Art. Her name will cross borders and spread across Europe, and someday the world shall know her genius."

"And _how_, do you suppose, that will happen if the girl is proclaimed dead?"

"She will not be," he replied impatiently. "I am preparing her, presently."

"Preparing her for _what_, pray tell?" Madam Giry pressed exasperatedly.

"Her stage debut, of course," Erik answered, unscathed.

Madam Giry sighed in frustration, unable to hold her anger at bay any longer. "Do you mean to tell me that you are first going to destroy her life outside of the opera, only to create a new life inside of it?" She rapped the floor viciously with her cane, glaring at Erik with scorching eyes. "You are forever the optimist if you believe that is at all possible! What makes you think she will not escape with her fiancé, hmm? What makes you believe her devotion to you will keep her away from him? Or _his_ from _her_?"

He said nothing, only glared taciturnly at the Ballet Mistress with eyes that glowed like fire.

Madam Giry heaved a great sigh. After a few moments' silence, she spoke, dazedly. "Why are you doing this, Erik?"

He moved his eyes away from hers then, refusing to meet her inquiring look, remaining staunchly and adamantly silent.

"Are you in love with her?"

His feelings of white-hot infuriation immediately transformed into those of bewilderment. "I beg your pardon?"

She took a few steps towards the masked man, leaning upon her cane reliantly, looking into the stark blankness of his countenance, searching for answers that would not present themselves through any portal save his eyes, which deigned to gaze upon her in surprise only after her former comment. "Do you love her, Erik?" she said forcefully, her voice a mixture of what appeared to be sobriety, compassion, austerity, and a great deal of understanding.

His body was stiff as stone, yet his silence conveyed all the bridled, pent-up emotion that he had harbored since his birth.

Ever since he had first heard her song.

"Better that you think that over before you throw her life away...and yours."

,')-'-,-'----

"Mademoiselle Douay, Monsieur le Comte."

Philippe's eyes rose from his ledgers onto the figure of his manservant, a loyal employee who had served under the de Chagny crest for many a year. Senectitude had been kind to the old gentleman, however, as the man was fit and lively for someone his age, qualities not to be readily found.

Despite the fact that the manservant announced the arrival of the visitor genteelly and humbly, he could not help but suppress a groan, gesturing to the manservant to bring her to him.

Short, clean fingernails dove their way into the temples of Philippe's hairline, burying themselves deeply within the chestnut locks that he prided himself in. He felt distressed, but it was a much deeper stress than any previously experienced: it was both physical and psychological. The ensuing events following Christine's 'disappearance' had been fatiguing, to say the least. He had hoped, blindly, that they might be able to put the entire sordid affair behind them and move on, taking Christine's extremely difficult search as a sign that she did not, in fact, want to be found. Nevertheless, Raoul had been persistent, and it had seemed that nothing was to stop the young man from finding his heart's love.

That was why he had called her in the first place, no doubt.

Now, she was not to be deferred, as the success in ridding their lives of Christine's presence had left only the opportunity for her position to be filled.

A slinking, graceful presence made itself eminent in the room, absorbing the gaslight and casting looming shadows upon the walls. Philippe stood.

_This was going to be an interesting conversation, indeed._

"Sorrel."

"Philippe," she responded smoothly.

"Won't you please sit?" he invited in his best refined fashion, seating himself.

She flashed a charming smile, spreading her skirts over the expanse of the chair opposite Philippe's desk, one she had become accustomed to occupying.

"I had been expecting your return far sooner, I must admit," Philippe began. "I had thought that your determination on this issue would have led you here the moment after the business had been completed."

She set her mouth in a grim, sharp frown, looking up at him with a face that clearly conveyed displeasure. "Ah, but therein you are mistaken, monsieur. The business of which you speak is far from finished."

"Pardon my ignorance, but how so?"

Sorrel, annoyed, clarified.

"It was my understanding that once Christine had…vacated, for lack of a better word, my side of the deal would be completed, and you would then proceed to fulfill your share." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes glittering with a fey gleam that ensorcelled, as well as unnerved the Count. "I suppose my method of giving you your time to divert my former fiancé from his heroic endeavors has failed me."

He blinked, trying mightily to clear the images of Sorrel's fiercely beautiful face swimming in a sea of reds, oranges, and browns, but the vision would not cease. He cleared his throat, attempting to regain the power over the conversation that he had told himself he would wield. As was usual, however, he realized that this woman held power over all conversations they had had or would have in the future. She was the true power-holder in the chess board of trickery, and he was merely a simple pawn in her game of catching the knight.

_The Black Queen_.

"You do recall promising me what I wanted, do you not, Philippe?" Her act of shattering the silence had not, in fact, surprised him, but simply made him fear what was to be included in her speech. "You promised that once Christine was out of the picture, Raoul would be free to marry the person of your choosing. You _do_ recall, do you not, that _I_ was to be the one you chose?" She looked him steadily in the eyes, the once blue-grey eyes transforming into dark charcoal.

He merely nodded, too weary of her game to respond.

Her returning rejoinder, however, was one of the most frightening, most demonic he had ever seen in a woman. In the shadows that surrounded them, she seemed to surpass them all in danger and foreboding, and seemed to personify Vengeance, unfettered from a deep, dark region of her that had never existed in the past.

"Just _when_ do you indeed to see your side of the bargain through?"

_Not this time, _he thought ominously. _I won't allow you to assume authority so easily…_

He stood thusly, hoping to instill in her some fragment of fear, simply with his towering height. To his chagrin, she remained unchanged, continuing to gaze at him with nothing short of vehemence.

"Forgive me my temerity, mademoiselle, but I am afraid you have left me little choice," he spoke through clenched teeth. "The situation, I am sorry to say, is not quite so simple as it would appear. While _you_ may be content with stepping upon hands to meet your ends, _I_, conversely, am simply trying to preserve some small inch of my brother's personal happiness."

Sorrel scoffed in an unladylike manner. "Happiness? You really believe that by allowing him false notions that she will return will fill his hollow heart?" She laughed bitterly, softly and with malice. "You are quite mistaken in that sense, Philippe. None of us are truly happy. We only assume the premise of happiness, in the hopes that by believing we are so, we might one day truly wear the emotion without the aid of a mask."

He scowled, the shadows on his face blending into the creases around his tired eyes and frowning mouth. He no longer hid his dislike; he made it apparent.

"You understand that it is by my good graces that you are here, Sorrel de Douay, and not out on the street, do you not?"

She returned his scowl, a deep loathing showing through that he had not quite anticipated, yet did not completely mismatch with his own expression. Her rancor was less directed at her foe than was his, but was aimed more towards the world, _their_ world, that had trapped them all in a web of lies and misdeeds that irrevocably bound them to a path of wrongdoing that would only end in pain and suffering for all. She stuck true to her own words. Happiness was unattainable to the golden few who thrived in society.

"Indeed I do," she replied with a sour murmur.

"Be advised, then, to watch your tongue whilst in my home if you ever wish for it to become your own."

,')-'-,-'----

At that exact same moment, a youthful, comely, once-hopeful man sat inside his room in that same residency, a torn envelope lying upon his leg, discarded for the sake of the contents it once held. A second letter, or, rather, the first letter that he had read, was lying on his pillow, already read, baulked at, and, much later, was fervently thankful for.

A letter from _Christine_.

It had sparked a multitude of emotions within him: mild hurt, passionate relief…even confusion. Christine's words were her own, of that there was no doubt. But the reasoning behind them? Some of the words seemed, at times, to take on a double meaning, the intent of which he could not begin to fathom. He had repeated the words in his head several times, like a mantra, simply for the taste of them upon his mind's tongue, and the imagery they fashioned as Raoul pictured, in his mind's eye, Christine's perfect lips forming the words that she had written.

The second letter, however, had destroyed all hopes that ignited within the young man's heart with its own profusion of world-shifting words.

The words of Christine's guardian.

_Dearest Christine, _

_I hope this letter may find you well, as I've heard only the most pleasant things about you._

_It has been a long time, my dear, since I have last seen your loving face. I wish that I might see you soon, so that we may discuss all the wonderful things that have been happening in your new, exciting life. Might you please visit me sometime soon, my dear? I am, I fear to say, terribly lonesome at times without the sight of your familiar and loving face. Please do not feel guilt, my child. A young girl with a penchant for life and all its wonders must not stay by feeling any sort of obligation to her surrogate guardian's side, especially at a precious time like this. _

_I await your response with great thankfulness that you have been so blessed._

_All my love, your_

_Mama Valerius _

The letter trembled within Raoul's hands. He willed himself to remain calm, to be still so that he might fully understand what both letters meant.

Both letters were dated within days of each other, making it seemingly impossible that Raoul should have mistaken the letter from Mama Valerius as being written before Christine arrived there.

Then why did Christine say she was there?

Without meaning to, the letter was soon crumpled into a ball in his fist, a monument to the internal anguish he suffered.

It was time to take her search into his own hands.

_Wherever you may be Christine, I pray that you are safe…_

,')-'-,-'----

A/N: So a lot of things are happening in this chapter. I wanted to get a variety of all the different aspects of this story in here, so that I might be able to focus more on the budding relationship between Erik and Christine. As you can see, things are a little awkward and tense between them…

I'd like to thank those few who have stuck with this story through the many annoying breaks I took. You guys are amazing, really, you are, and I appreciate you so much.

I'd also like to apologize for any grammatical/spelling errors I make. If anyone would like to be a beta for me (it's a little late in the game, but still, I'll ask), I would kiss your shoes and throw rose petals whilst you walk.

What are you thinking? Liking it? Hating it? Let me know, I'm open to suggestions and/or comments!

Review, s'il vous plait.


	31. Let Your Fantasies Unwind

_"My passions, from that hapless hour,  
Usurp'd a tyranny which men  
Have deem'd, since I have reached to power,  
My innate nature - be it so:  
But, father, there liv'd one who, then,  
Then - in my boyhood - when their fire  
Burn'd with a still intenser glow  
(For passion mind, with youth, expire)  
E'en_ then _who knew this iron heart  
In woman's weakness had a part."  
_**"Tamerlane", E.A.P.**

,')-'-,-'----

_Were it not for my obligation towards her_, he mused darkly, _a certain ballet mistress might be missing indefinitely._

The conversation with Madam Giry – inevitable, he later realized - had not sat well with him, even minutes after the mind-reeling and eye-opening exchange took place. It had been nothing short of predictable.

And yet…

He growled menacingly in the back of his throat, a deep, rumbling sound that shook the very foundations of the walls he passed in his belligerent, passionate gait. Anger coursed through his veins like the venom of a snake, blinding in its poisonous rampage and numbing all elements of his body…save his mind, which was, in fact, affected most pointedly. Of all the many things to hate in the world, of all the many _people_, he hated none so fiercely, or so entirely, as himself. Purely self-directed, yet the conscious knowledge of this fact did nothing to bring the fierce boiling of his emotions to any gentler bubble.

He was unpleasantly surprised to find that the discourse, to his chagrin, was excruciatingly thought-provoking. By either good intent or ill, Madam Giry had brought up the one topic Erik was least likely to discuss with another human being. She had, no doubt, foresaw the comings of what the discussion would bring, and had advanced steadily, her unshaken determination and strong purpose unwilling to yield to the dangerous aspect his presence brandished. By doing so, she had stripped him of any power he might have held over the stream of questions asked, even if he had no control over the direction the conversation would take.

Then, she had asked him the most lethal question she could ever ask him. It was by the great mercy he had learnt from Christine's sweet companionship that he let her ask it.

_Are you in love with her?_

What had she seen in the depths of his dark eyes, eyes that he once fancied to be hollow and devoid of any emotion, save hatred? Had she seen the truth that simmered quietly and undisturbed beneath the surface, a truth he himself was not yet aware of?

Following his discourse with Madam Giry, Erik had stalked off in complete and utter agitation and annoyance, bent on completing what he had sought to make his mission above ground, a mission that would, hopefully, bring information to dull the aching pain of hot adrenaline rushing throughout his body.

His pathetic, simpering shells of men for managers had feigned concern and allowed the authorities, as well as the two brothers, to search out the premises themselves. To all they had seemed compliant and cooperative, and in the privacy of their office, the managers screeched and complained of how their Opera was now completely out of control. More importantly, out of their hands.

_About time you realized this, you pompous fools…_

They had interviewed all in employment of the company, causing much annoyance and discord. What did it matter that the Daae girl had run off? Who was she to have such great eminence over the running of their lives and the spending of their precious rehearsal time?

Though he saw their point of view, he made a note of which members were exceedingly unhelpful.

He paused, entirely caught up in a whirlwind of vast, distressing emotions, when he heard a sound to his immediate left. Hurrying into the shadows, he retracted a sneer as a certain presence past by him, unaware of the shadow standing merely feet away.

_Vicomte, _he nearly hissed.

The man had almost caught Erik by surprise! _Doubtful, _the shadow thought with distaste. He had, seemingly, wondered off by himself, unconscious to the fact that dangerous spirits occupied his immediate surroundings.

Erik could feel his self-restraint wavering. His own abhorrence of himself seemed to dissipate considerably when his eyes were filled with only his rival, his enemy. The boy's charming good looking, wealthy garb, and innocent countenance only made him all the more hateful in Erik's eyes. He was, as far as Erik could comprehend, completely lost, but the very fact that he was lost did not seem to trouble him at all. A different kind of troubled look was settled within his eyes. A look that had been implanted for days, even weeks on end.

Apprehension soon dawned in Erik's mind.

_You will not find her here, boy. However, should you venture five stories below your very feet, you should find yourself quite surprised at what can be hidden from unseeing eyes…_

Against his more willful instincts, Erik allowed the boy to travel through safely, if merely for the fact that any harm imposed upon the boy would only later be pain upon Christine. And he would tolerate none of _that_.

With an even more unsettled frame of mind, Erik continued on, mindful of all going on around him, seeking any and all holes that might let slip information that would benefit the ghost.

,')-'-,-'----

Sleep had not returned to her in the few, pathetic attempts she had made at succumbing to its powers of possessiveness. For her, it seemed to come only when she wished it away, and when she desired, it would evade her.

It was within these moments of frustrated failure that an opening and closing of a door shook her from her agitated reverie.

Quickly straightening her skirts and patting down her unmanageable hair, Christine met Erik in the front room, her libretto in hand.

He was removing his cloak and hat when she arrived, stiffening as her light footsteps were added to the silence of the small room, though he made no attempt to acknowledge her. His very being seemed to be radiating a mixture of vile feelings, making her instantly wary. And worried.

_What happened above ground?_

_Oh yes,_ she thought sarcastically as Erik continued to move, this time turning around and facing her. _I know where we are, Erik. I am not a simpleton. I just wish you would be truthful with me, if for only a minute._

"Was the outing a rewarding one?"

He considered her, visibly guarded when the tone she produced was not one he was accustomed to. _Good,_ she thought with satisfaction. _Maybe now some questions will be answered._

"I suppose so."

He was short, but she had expected him to be.

"Did you speak to anyone while you were there?"

She had planned on continuing with this pressing pattern of sporadic questions, but with one look from his ferocious, golden gaze, she immediately quieted and forsook her attempt at an interrogation. The fear of him returned, if only superficially. He was not to be trifled with at this moment, it seemed.

Aware of the darkening in his eyes and the widening in hers, he took a step forward. She flinched, involuntarily, yet it was a motion he did not easily miss, and it was with quiet dismay she realized the mistake in her reaction.

"Perhaps you would rather we left the lesson for later, then?" he quietly inquired in mock politeness, harshly reprimanding her for her jerky movement.

She narrowed her eyes, surprising herself at the quick, red-hot anger that flared to the surface of her conflicting emotions, much like a flame tasting a wick, slowly melting the candle to molten wax. Without thinking, without second-guessing herself, she strode across the room, straight towards the door he had entered from – and towards him. His eyes widened considerably, stunned by the abruptness of her actions, never minding the heedlessness of the propriety that had unconsciously developed between the two of them. Within seconds, her hand had landed upon the door knob, only to be crushed under the cool, leather exterior of Erik's hand, crushing her small hand to the metal orb so tightly that she squeaked in pain.

"_Just where do you think you're going?_" he hissed scathingly, his eyes burning holes through her skull.

"Out!" she returned, feverishly. "If _you_ will not allow me to accompany you outside, then I simply will have to show myself out!"

He moved from her side to face the door, effectively pinning her against its wooden frame, his remaining hand slamming against the door and trapping her within the prison of his arms. "I do not recall giving you permission to leave," he said in an acescent tone, his voice so low it could have grazed the depths of the murky, bottomless lake.

"I do not _care_! Don't you _understand_, Erik? I'm sick of your games!" She glowered at him, her accusing tone never wavering, peaking to a panicked shriek that one could pronounce as whining. She was practically screaming into his face, but showed no sign of stopping, or of caring how childish she appeared. "I asked for freedom, for independence, and what do you do? You offer it to me, time and time again, but snatch it away just as easily, as if offering me an apple on a branch and suddenly lifting it, just when it is in reach!" She lifted her chin, defying him to the point where fear no longer played any role – she was hollow with the exhaustion.

A ripple slashed through her body involuntary when she finally took a breath. He was glaring at her, not with hatred, not with revulsion, but with something very different. It was akin to…respect? It was not with accompaniment, however, but the latter shook her ever so much more.

"Well done, Christine," he commented sensually, with a hint of sarcasm, allowing the husky tone his musical voice was inclined to take whenever he felt the need to use its power to flow through his lips. She could feel his warm breath upon her face, making her knees wobble and her head feel light. "It seems the obedient, reserved child in you has finally brought out the ammunition and fired away. But, I dare say mademoiselle, I am not the less pleased by what you have said, even if it was wrongfully directed." His eyes burnt with a fire so bright that her lungs constricted painfully at the vision. A myriad of instances flew through her mind then, rotating between Erik striking her across the face, striking him across the face, and Erik taking her in his arms and kissing her without restraint.

Two of the possibilities were very appealing at that moment. She knew the reason for one…but for the other?

She no longer denied the attraction she felt for him. It was like denying the fact that her soul was bound to music, or the itchiness in her fingers whenever an abandoned book lay on the ground. It was a thorn in her side, an unquenchable thirst, a darkness that clouded her mind that she dare not comprehend. _He_ was too dangerous.

But that was not the sole reason she did not give in to him.

She could be stubborn, too, as well as tempting.

She glared back at him, if only to mask the emotions that made her cheeks burn crimson.

Gracefully, and not a tiny bit seductively, she jutted out her lower lip, watching in pleased amusement as another game between them took place. _You will lower the even playing field by using your voice as a tool against me, Erik? Very well. I have weapons of my own._

"Oh, I wouldn't say wrongfully, Erik."

The corners of his lips lifted slightly, amused by her willingness to play his game. He did not move away from her, and Christine couldn't say she was displeased by that fact. The warmth that emanated from his body stirred something within her, something she knew, deep down, to be very, very wrong. Yet, somehow, at that particular moment, she couldn't have cared less.

"What would you say, then?" His eyes twinkled behind his mask, making her heart melt.

"It was justifiable."

"I see," he stated, lowly. His eyes lowered to her lips briefly, a glance she couldn't help but notice with sheer terror, as well as a thrilling sensation, but the movement of his eyes was so fleeting, she could have sworn she had imagined it. "That puts us in quite a predicament, now doesn't it?" He released his hold upon her hand and slid the other from the door, yet the distance between them neither widened nor closed.

"I have a proposition to offer you, Christine, should you choose to accept. As neither of us are currently happy with the situation at hand, I will offer to take you outside my home, at your request, at the catch that you will be accompanied by me at all times. In return, you must commit yourself, whatever the outcome of your duration in my tutorage, to singing. Whatever path you choose, Christine, music must be an aspect of it. Do you understand?"

She glanced up into his face with astonishment. The enormity of his request sunk into her with a dull thud. He was asking her to pursue music, that much was certain…but was he no longer mandating that she pursue a career in opera?

As for her path…

Was he asking her to choose between Raoul, and…himself?

The possibility shook her to her very core, leaving her stone-cold.

His wording, however, implied not that she had to make a decision, but that he understood that her choice was her own to make, and not his. He was bestowing upon her the greatest gift of all…not the gift of song, nor the gift of independence, but the gift of free will. A gift that did not obligate her to anyone. Not even to him.

His eyes, however, were not blank, but were rather bright with the sincerity behind his words. They were neither inquiring nor implying, neither prodding nor plaintive. They were, for what had to be the first time, tender.

And, as always, passion-filled.

If her breath had been stolen from her lungs previously, the feeling was unmatched by how she felt now. She could utter not a single syllable; simply admitted defeat and unlatched her eyes from his beguiling gaze, nodding in acquiescence.

She could have cried then, had the tears been at her disposal.

"Very well," he said, deflatingly, stepping away from her and putting as much distance between them as the room provided. "I believe I mentioned a lesson earlier, no?"

,')-'-,-'----

He knew the extent to what he had offered her. The risks were great, yet, it was the only way he could win her trust. For he now knew what had been unavoidable to realize.

He loved her.

And even though he gave her the chance to leave him, even while the door had been behind her and his arms were not constricting her, he could not let her go.

So, to gain her trust, he had granted her her wish. To retain some contact with the world above ground. And she would get her wish.

And, in the process, he would get his.

Her reciprocated love.

,')-'-,-'----

Alright, I know I went a little wonky in that chapter. I'm sorry, I simply had to let the passion monster run amok! I'm terribly sorry if any of you were harmed or even upset in the process.

Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews! You simply make my day.

I hope you enjoyed your chapter of gooey Erik/Christine-ness. The conflict approaches steadily.


	32. The Bridge Is Crossed

So, just before we begin this, I wanted to make a quick and sincere apology.

I'm very, VERY sorry for the hiatus. Which it what it was. And the fact that I didn't say as much remains hidden from me.

Okay, make that a **plead** for forgiveness.

Now, onto the story! Hurrah!

,')-'-,-'----

"_For the heart whose woes are legion  
_'_Tis a peaceful, soothing region –  
__For the spirit that walks in shadow  
_'_Tis –oh, 'tis an Eldorado!  
__But the traveler, traveling through it,  
__May not – dare not openly view it;  
__Never its mysteries are exposed  
__To the weak human eye unclosed."_

- **"Dream-Land", E.A.P.**

,')-'-,-'----

_The afternoon was a grim one, quieted by the recent storms that had passed over the city, leaving behind a thick, heavy fog that clung to the ground in the morning and filled the air with a dreary, cold humidity that slunk upon the skin and down into the blood, even during the early hours of noontime. The sound of horses' hooves slapping against the wet pavement of the street awoke the Vicomte from his daydream with a jolt, causing him to grimace and shake his head discontentedly. _

_He had not slept well the previous evening, having spent the last few days pondering over a course of action to take. The bountiful, fruitless operations by the __Sûreté that __had been commissioned to seek out Christine had failed, and Raoul had finally come to the decision that if one wanted something done right, they had to take it upon themselves._

_He had realized, with a sickening sort of horror: he was drowning in his own self-induced misery. He was drained of strength, yet, at the same time, brimming with purpose. It was as if a toxin had been injected into his bloodstream, like a tranquilizer shot by a huntsman, and was steadily tapping him of his strength as he attempted to flee. _

Now is not the time to focus on what has happened, _he reminded himself sardonically. _The only thing that matters is going forward.

_The carriage pulled up before the Opera, coming to a standstill in the dreary, abandoned streets, a testament to all things opulent, leisurely, and grand. He shot a glare of pure derisiveness atrf the building, as if blaming the structure for his personal demons. The coming threat of winter had frightened the population into their homes on this particularly bitter day, and because it was Sunday, men and women were not especially partial to the idea of spending such a day outdoors. The stark, vacant appeal of the streets only furthered to intensify the feelings of loneliness in his dually breaking and hardening heart, giving him a further need to venture inside._

_He strode through the halls of the Opera, his gait purposeful, pronounced, his heels clicking like gongs upon the smooth, marble floor. The empty corridors of the building offered no comfort, yet they offered no opposition to his mission either, their lugubrious silence somehow appropriate, yet distinctly unbefitting of the great _Palais Garnier_. Within mere minutes, he was within the confinement of the managers' office, his expression stoic._

"_What news?" he inquired evenly._

_The managers exchanged unsure looks._

"_Monsieur -," Moncharmin began, hesitantly._

"_Someone must have heard some hearsay, some shred of a lead," Raoul interrupted._

_Monsieur Richard leaned forward, his eyes somber and compassionate. "We realize the depth of your discomfort, Monsieur le Vicomte, and we sympathize with you greatly…"_

"_**Discomfort**__?!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the walls of the enclosed area. His voice suddenly dropped ten degrees, becoming frigid. "You dare to assume that the situation of my missing fiancé is a _discomfort_? That you sympathize?" He stood very quickly, his face reddening beneath his boyish features. "You cannot even _begin_ to comprehend my 'discomfort', gentlemen. I assure you, once she is found, those who knew of her whereabouts, and were less than forthcoming with information, shall be severely reprimanded." Curtly, he turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him with a force that echoed viciously._

_The stony and haunting silence of the Opera soon engulfed him as he quickly made his way throughout the theatre, using his swiftly-moving feet as a way to relieve his pent-up frustrations. He felt as if he were entirely alone, with no one else in the world to comfort him, with no location for him to find solace. He simply walked and walked and walked, finding himself behind the stage, weaving his way through the labyrinthine corridors. _

_The shadows themselves were alive and breathing as he passed, and it was not without a shimmer of disquiet that he realized how foolhardy it was to pass alone in these halls, carrying his purse. He knew that it was after rehearsal hours and most had gone home for the day, but the maddening stillness drove him to glance over his shoulder on more than a single account._

_He squinted in the dim gaslight as a rustle of some sort sounded a few feet before him, immediately halting him in his tracks. He glanced around, wary of any shady activity, his senses alert and ready. He heard no sound save the irregular beating of his heart, the rhythmic, pulsing rushing of blood in his ears. He stepped lightly, his eyes concentrated on the spot before him. After a few seconds' of shallow breathing, he continued on. A flash of gold, an intensity unlike anything he had ever witnessed, burst before his vision for a mere moment, than vanished, swallowed by the shadows like a ghastly specter._

_Once his energies were properly burnt out, he returned to the foyer of the building, when suddenly, a voice, raw and hurried, called out to him from behind._

"_Monsieur de Changy."_

_He turned around. Before him was a strict-looking woman in black, leaning heavily upon a dancing cane, her shrewd eyes reminding him of those of a hawk's, accentuated by the her severe twist of dark hair at the nape of her neck. _

"_May I help you, Madam?" he inquired stonily, yet with a high degree of civility._

"_The better question, Vicomte, is if I can help you," she returned evenly, matching his tone imperiously. She appeared to be drawn, and looked rather relenting and desolate. It was a strange contrast, as her voice gave her away as a steadfast, self-righteous personage. Her face, however, gave off the appearance of an internal battle, as if coming to him caused her great distress, oblivious to himself._

"_Help? Do you know of my circumstances?" _

"_Indeed, monsieur. I believe I can be of some assistance to you in your search," she asserted gravely._

_His voice quavered like that of a small child that was about to receive a tremendous gift. "Christine?"_

_She nodded her head once, twice. "_Oui_, monsieur," she replied slowly, walking closer and lowering her voice. "I know of Christine. I can tell you how to find her."_

,')-'-,-'----

Christine felt a warmth spread through her as a tingling feeling of anticipation, aided by adrenaline, shot through her body. It was to be the first sighting of the outside world she was to have in weeks, the first breath of fresh air, the first sight of the sky above.

She could not wait a moment longer.

He appeared, as he said he would, holding out a large, fur-lined coat to her, one of many articles of clothing he had provided her with over the last several weeks. She had never once questioned him about her wardrobe, had never made any requests of him, never mentioning any of it. She was grateful, but her gratitude went far beyond anything words could attest to. Words were simply inadequate, hollow things that carried little meaning between them.

She knew he understood this. As did he.

She took the coat from him, casting upon him a sincere and toothy smile, innocently acquiescing when he offered to help her into it, his fingers, nimble and lithe as was usual, never touching her skin. He strode towards the door, removing the small, bronze key deftly from his pocket, never once glancing at her during the process. She, however, waited with baited breath as he turned the doorknob, the excitement of seeing outside once more blocking out all thoughts from her mind.

Before them was the lake beneath the Opera House, a thing she had heard of from numerous rumors, yet never having taken as truth. She glanced at the surface in awe, the dark, misty expanse cold and mysterious, stretching out to a distant shore. She noted a boat that was tied to the shore before them, and promptly asked Erik if they would be crossing. He shook his head, his tone leaden and his movement pronounced. She shivered at the sight of Erik's dark form walking beside the shadowy, dead waters. It was eerie, to say the least.

"We will take the Rue Scribe entrance out to the street, where we will take a brougham to the park." He turned to her suddenly, his glowing eyes lit with – was that hope? - behind the mask. "Does that please you, Christine?"

She could barely contain her enthusiasm at the mention of the park, simply bobbing her head up and down, her curls shaking loosely about her shoulders, the vibrant texture and color restored to the accreditation they were due. "Very much so."

He nodded singularly, continuing to lead them to the entrance.

Upon reaching the street, Christine inhaled a deep lungful of cool, sugary-sweet air, her face feeling chilled with the natural, minty coolness of the impending winter months. A contented sigh escaped her lips, producing a small wisp of misty air before her. Erik looked back at her, his eyes dancing with mirth at the small act, innocent and jubilant.

Rumbling softly in the quiet of the night, the vehicle pulled up before them, diverting their attention from the dark-drenched alleyway. The driver wasted no time in averting his eyes from the masked man and his charming companion, opening their door and helping Christine inside. While it could quite possibly have been her imagination, Christine felt, rather than Erik glare at the driver as he took her gloved hand in his own as she ascended the steps into the carriage, the tension budding seamlessly. He muttered something incoherent to the driver, than sat opposite her. Once inside, her worries soon dissipated when his eyes latched onto hers, filling her with mixed feelings of entrapment, entrancement, and exhilaration.

Their conversation within the coach was airy and quiet, their exchange amounting to nothing more than a hushed murmur here and there. Yet, even as their discussion was simple, it was peaceful, and both were wholly satisfied with the exchange, finding it more than suitable for the moment.

Their gentle whispers soon diminished as the carriage came to a smooth halt, the wheels ceasing their quiet rumble upon the stone. Very soon, they were once again in the night air, and, after Erik's soft-spoken instructions were given to the driver, the horses soon pulled away, leaving the two of them standing silently on the street.

"Shall we?" he asked, indicating the park before them.

They began to walk steadily and slowly, their footfalls masked by the sounds of the night all around them. A short distance away, creatures stirred and chirped, their sounds acting as horns adding to the strings of the leaves rustling and the grasses swaying in the wind. The night symphony was the perfect backdrop to the duo's venture, with them acting as the main players on the stage of Night herself.

"Tell me something about yourself, Erik."

Her voice was a lilting caress against the very face of the moon, as the clouds before it suddenly seemed to part to allow the full light of the Lady shine upon them.

"What is it that you want to know?" he answered reservedly. The reply was hesitant, yet it was negotiable.

"Anything," she answered solemnly.

The silence drolled on for a few moments before he answered. "It is not that I do not want to tell you, Christine. It is because I am afraid of what your reaction will be to what I tell you."

"Then start with something simple. I know close to nothing, Erik. Anything would suffice."

She watched from the corner of her eye as Erik looked off ahead of them, his shoulders straight, yet slightly lagging under the internal conflict within to divulge, or to repress. She breathed a sigh of relief: at least he was not outright refusing.

"I am French by birth, but by all rights I am a little of everything you can imagine. I lived in France during my childhood, after which I lived in Italy, Russia, Persia, and anywhere in between. I studied several different fields wherever I went: architecture, design, politics, languages, medicine, music…all that was open to me. I found that while I was traveling, I was searching for something that was not to be found. My search ended and I settled here."

"Why the Opera House?" She was frightened to ask this particular question, but it had left her mouth before she could double-guess herself.

"Why, to be a part of the centre of culture, no doubt," he said jokingly, giving her a rare smile as they walked, their pace ever slower on the moonlit path.

She knew he was joking to hide the unpleasant topic from being discussed, and in some small way, she was grateful for it. In another, however, she was slightly disappointed by his answer. His elusive answers only added to the intrigue that was only a fraction of the now undutiful attraction she felt for her captor, her mentor, her personal phantom. She wanted to know everything about him, every secret, every past event, every memory held dear. She wanted to know whom he befriended, whom he had enraged into becoming his enemy, where his family was, whom he had loved…

The starling thought soon shook her from her reverie, making her realize that he had stopped and was now staring at her with an uncanny intensity that hitched the breath in her throat.

"I have told the managers of my intent to cast you in the Opera's upcoming performances. The lead role is secured for you, of that I have no doubt."

His voice was silken perfection, a touch of heaven embodied in a sound so pure and divine that it could not but have descended from the cosmos above. She was lost within that voice, she now realized, an utter wretch that swam within the tides and drifts that was the musical quality of the tone, the pitch, the resonance. She was utterly a slave to it, and without hearing it, she came to understand with bittersweet torment, she would surely go mad.

"The only thing that remains is your decision."

His message was unmistakable. _Choose Music, Christine. Serve Her. Serve __**Me**_

She closed her eyes against the impossibilities of the request.

She couldn't…

…oh, but how she _wanted_ to.

His hand suddenly lashed out, only the merest trace of a whisper of leather rustling as his muscles shifted. The gentle limb came to hover only inches away from her face, turned upwards as if expecting his caress. Her eyes remained closed, yet she sensed the unmistakable movement, and could discern the warmth of his hand from the surrounding cold air. Neither moved for several seconds. Then, like the breaking of a dam, the barrier was crossed, and his fingers began to softly move against the porcelain surface of her skin, tracing the curve of her cheek with his three middle fingers. A distinct flash of electricity was sent through the barrier, scorching both parties with a wave of unprecedented longing. Slowly, Christine opened her eyes, and, with the portal to her soul opening to him without fear, without hesitation, but with abandon, his courage failed him, and he stopped abruptly. An eternity seemed to pass before his eyes broke contact, and they began to move once more.

When they returned that night, and both were in their respective beds, neither slept without thoughts of the other interrupting their disturbed sleep.


	33. Can You Bow Out?

You would think that with the combination of free time and no school, I would be incredibly un-busy. Not quite. Even so, I have no excuse for the way in which I update. All I can say is that I love you all for being so patient and writing such wonderful comments. You truly uphold me in my darkest hours. Well, in a manner of speaking, at least. But I ask you from the bottom of my heart...don't give up on me. I promise that the angsty/adventure-y stuff is upon us. Now, onward!

,')-'-,-'----

_"By, by and by, the Angel suddenly construed this behavior of mine into contempt. He arose in a terrible passion, slouched his funnel down over his eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a threat of some character which i did not precisely comprehend, and finally made me a low bow and depart, wishing me, in the language of the arch-bishop in "Gil-Blast,"_ 'beaucoup de bonheur et un peu plus de con sens _(a lot of happinesses and a little more of common sense)'"._

-"The Angel of The Odd", **E.A.P.**

,')-'-,-'----

The sound of smashing glass pierced the air with an echoing shrill, the crystalline shards bouncing off the mantelpiece as the wineglass hit the marble ledge. The contents of the formerly-impeccable and carefully-carved crystal ware splattered upon the mantelpiece and dripped onto the carpet, staining the surface a deep, ruby red. The fine shards sparkled in the light of the fireplace as they fell upon the heavy Persian rug, landing – thankfully – several feet away from the two occupants of the room.

The source of the violent act was enraged, the normally cool composure stripped, replaced instead by a mask of hideous beastliness. The hand that flung said glass was shaking uncontrollably, grasping the other hand so tightly, the skin turned an even more luminescent shade of white than the normally fair skin tone. The second occupant wisely chose to withdraw his gaze and settle it upon the liquor as it dripped from the mantle and into the fire with a sizzling _hiss, _his glance better served on any other object, rather than raise the ire of his companion.

The air was thick with tense agitation, causing a wave of dizziness to overtake the latter person. The very essence of repugnance was aimed straight towards him like a collected missal of deathly-sharp knives, of that he was sure, even without determining the point of focus. He felt, rather than saw the murderous mixture of godless outrage and pure scorn in her eyes, the steaming frustration that - while he was not personally responsible for - he was taking the brunt of.

"_How could this be?"_ she said viciously, beginning to pace the room, her long, full skirts sweeping the floor, the sound of which reminding her servant of a tumultuous windstorm in the East. In the background, the windows pounded with the harsh lashing of wind against the glass, matching her movements, as if the weather reflected her black mood.

She stopped suddenly, deathly still, her pallor so white she was almost translucent. "Tell me again what you saw. Every last detail. I must know the situation to the fullest extent. Leave nothing unsaid."

The man who played witness to this turbulent metamorphosis of emotions stepped closer to the fire, the remnants of the wineglass crushing beneath his large, booted feet. He heaved a deep sigh, brushing the unkempt, slack hair from his eyes. He did as was bid, and recalled the tale.

_The dark figure glanced at the sky above him, disappointed to find that the moon was full and no clouds obscured her face. It was with a fleeting pleasure that he reflected that no stars shown. It was a simple gratification; stars always made one feel as if they were watched. Especially if one's duties were of ill intent._

_Large, booted feet scuffled along the paved road, the sight of the Opera clearly in his vision. His mission for the night was to seek out a rather dismal location and make an exchange with one of his beneficiaries. After all, midnight was by far the best time to make business transactions. No witnesses, no suspicions. Clean hands. Cold cash. Silent deaths._

_He leaned against the stony wall of a shop that was closed for the night. The man he sought had promised to meet him a few minutes after the moon was on most high, and, though he had never considered himself a God-fearing man, nor any sort of fearful man for that matter, he supposed that perhaps he was obtaining his just rewards by having the slightest inclination to believe that the air was not quite right, that the city was not quite asleep. That somewhere, somewhere very close, something extraordinary was to take place._

_He followed his gut, forsaking the shadows and instead tuned in to his most sensitive hearing, paying attention to every crevice, every moving shadow, every whistle and whisper. It was then that he saw the single brougham take flight from the Rue Scribe of the Opera. _How strange, _he mused silently. He had a distinct feeling about this particular carriage, and sought to follow its path. _

_His journey had proven him successful, once he was able to reach the carriage he followed. A tall, dark-clothed man and a slight, curly-haired woman exited the carriage and stood against the expanse of the park, standing rather awkwardly and unsurely. And yet, there was something very familiar about the curly-haired woman. The way her hands seemed to brush her dress unconsciously when she walked, or the way she touched her neck when speaking…_

Well, well, well,_ he thought with somewhat of an inner-leer. _What have we here?

_A spark of maliciousness crept up within the base of his throat and traveled into his mouth, tasting tempting and sweet. _A treat, _he thought somewhat manically. _Christine has seen fit to grace the unworthy world with her existence.

_He followed stealthily, trying, with little success, to overhear the shared conversation between the two while remaining inconspicuous. _Is this the famed voice coach?_ he wondered. _Has she been with him the entire time?If so, where? Why was no word sent to her beloved before? For _he_ certainly does not know where she is_…_

_A wicked thought crept into his mind just then. _Ah, is it infidelity, sweet, naïve Christine?Is your appetite for opulence and indulgence not satiated by the young Vicomte? Surely he is everything you would ever need. Why choose a dark, ominous companion, instead?

Perhaps you preferred a more mysterious, experienced lover than that of your young man.

No matter_, he thought silkily. _The Lady will be most pleased with this information.

_Or so he thought. _

"**She was supposed to have disappeared**!" she screeched. She pointed an accusatory finger in his direction. "**And **_**you**_** were to see to it that it was made so**!"

He dipped his head to his chest, not in a humbling gesture, but rather in one that would preserve his patience and still his infuriated tongue. "My lady," he began quietly, speaking through clenched teeth with his dark brown, rough-skinned lips, concealed by his shadowy countenance. "She was seen by no one but myself and the driver of the carriage – ,"

"And therein, precisely, lies our little problem!" She braced herself against the dark paneling of the wall, her claw-like fingers biting into the wood like pale spiders sticking to the surface. "The city of Paris harbors no greater idle occupation than that of gossip! Word will soon travel that the soon-to-be _Vicomtesse_," she hissed the word, "is out and about! And when word reaches Raoul, he will surely double his search efforts."

She paused briefly, as if in contemplation. "He is, at present, steadily declining in fervor. I had hoped that perhaps he would soon give up his attempt and relent in favor of myself. Such was the plan." She extracted herself from the wall, turning her gaze to her unmoving minion. "I had hoped that this could be avoided, but there is no other option. It would appear you were right, that night so long ago," she added with a hint of a smirk on her poisoned red lips. "I would have you permanently rid ourselves of her." She strode to her former seat that she had occupied by the fire, refilling another class of merlot for herself. "Complete your task stealthily and quickly.

"I want word to spread like wildfire that Christine Daae has been murdered."

,')-'-,-'----

She came into his music chamber meekly, watching his back with apprehension, as well as with a trace of confused ardor. She knew no other name for the swirling torrent of feelings he stirred within her, and yet now was not the time to contemplate such things, for, if she succeeded, she would never have to contemplate her confused feelings ever again.

"Erik?" She started at how high-pitched her voice was, and how it seems to squeak like a mouse scuttling across the floor.

He turned at the sound of her voice, yet his body language gave away no hint of being surprised. "Christine, come in, please."

She gave a small, inaudible gasp when she stood before him, noting that a smile, a truly sincere smile shone under the white expanse of his mask, seemingly melting away the icy exterior that always seemed to encase its master in its hold. She returned the smile half-heartedly, though it wasn't for not wanting to. It was because she had no other choice than to take the metaphorical apple, though she now knew the dispatcher to be no snake.

She felt as if she could do not to hold back the tears that threatened in her eyes.

_But why was that?_

Her treacherous heart bellowed the answer, though her mind shooed the possibility.

_You _care_ for him, admit it._

_Never, _the rational part in her reasoned. _He abducted me! Took me prisoner! Held me hostage and kept me from Raoul!_

_Raoul…_

When had she last thought about him? Her mind immediately crumbled at the revelation.

_I am unworthy of anyone's affections, _she thought miserably_. And here I stand; one man practically begging me to stay and another scourging the city to find me. I truly am a wretch._

The masked man's eyes swept over the cloudy expression in her face, matching it with a bemused one of his own. "Christine? Did you wish to say something to me?"

She shook herself from her reverie. "Y-yes, Erik, I do. That is, if you're not busy with something…"

He immediately stood, gesturing to the chaise in the room, offering her a seat. "Not at all. Please, sit."

She nodded her thanks, folding her hands upon her lap and tucking her feet beneath her skirts. Nothing was said for several moments, as Christine appeared to be deep in thought, yet felt the intense pressure of Erik's eyes upon her form. Finally, she relented.

"I have made a decision, Erik."

He stiffened. "I see. And that decision would be…?"

She took a deep breath, then met his eyes. "I wish to _audition_," she stressed the word, so that he would understand her correctly, "for the next opera."

The look in his eyes took her by surprise, as she could not interpret what he was saying through them. Several emotions seemed to pass before them, leaving her even more befuddled with every change. Suspicion, relief, joy, regret, and finally, sadness. The last confused her most of all. Wasn't it what he had wanted to hear? Wasn't this what he wanted for her?

"Very well, Christine," he said, standing. "I release you."

She immediately froze. She felt as if she had been slapped across the face, hard. "You…you _what_?"

"Did I stutter?" he asked with a combination of bitterness and impatience. "I said you are free to go. I shall take you above, and from there, you can return to the arms of your sweet beloved."

"Erik-,"

"Did you think me simple?" he shot out suddenly, causing her to take a few steps back. "If nothing else, Christine, let us be honest with one another. After all, wasn't it you who suggested it in the first place?"

She glared at him. "I _am_ being honest, Erik! I -,"

"Do you know what I think?" he interrupted, causing her jaw to immediately snap up. He rubbed his chin in though, narrowing his eyes in speculation. "I think that you merely saw my proposal as a means of escape. That you would simply _promise_," he raised his hand to stop her protest, "to perform upon my stage, but would use the excuse as a means of fleeing into the countryside with your precious _fiancé_," he seethed at the word, "and ne'er return."

She rose her chin in defiance, squaring her shoulders in resolution. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing! As far as the two of us are concerned, I remain to be the only one who hasn't betrayed the others' trust!"

"Oh, a fine sentiment indeed, coming from a woman who would gladly run away for fear of a soiled reputation!"

"I never acceded to such a claim! Hang reputation, Erik, all I want is control of my own life!"

"And what a way of attaining said control, mademoiselle. Nothing is more fit that to throw away months of extensive training, all for the sake of wedding nobility!"

She groaned in frustration. "How many times must I tell you that it is not about that? _God_, Erik, what you must think of me to repeatedly attest to it!"

He growled impatiently in return. "That is _not_ what I meant."

"Oh no? Forgive me, Erik, I had it understood that I am nothing but a shallow, gold-snatching vixen to you!"

Their labored breathing was the only thing that rang throughout the room. It was deafening, yet the silence was even more so.

Christine eyes suddenly dampened, yet she refused to allow the moisture to spill over. "All my _life_, I have wanted nothing more than to sing, to perform before an audience, _this_ audience," she indicated the world above, as well as the stage above their heads. "I would trade my very soul for the opportunity you have given me. And in several ways, I already have." She glared at him momentarily, watching his eyes as they darkened with her words.

"But I won't lie to you when I tell you that I care for Raoul, and not returning to him, after disappearing for weeks on end, would break his heart. That is something I am not ready to do," she finished, bravely.

"That is all very well and nice, Christine. But we have spun circles around this and you can no longer avoid the decision. The Comte will not allow his sister-in-law to be an actress. His childish outburst should have been thorough enough evidence for you." He saw the pain flicker across her face, and immediately cursed his tongue and heart. "I will not condemn you if you answer me truly," he tried again, more softly. "After your debut, will you perform again? Or will the opera world merely have a taste of you and be forever denied?"

The soft, growing hesitation in his voice was too much for her to bear. The tears spilt like icy rivers down her cheeks, cascading down her lips and onto her dress. "I don't know."

They stood before one another, him, a tall pillar of strength, slowly crumbling, and her, a weakened, fallen angel, choosing between the impassioned night and the comforting day. In many ways, however, he was a fallen angel as well, _her_ fallen angel. Much as she did not want to admit it to anyone, he was her angel of music, and always would be.

Yet she knew she was no Persephone. There were no pomegranate seeds for her to sweetly snack on, signing away half her life to the underground, while relishing in the sun for the other half, missing one world either way. Life was not as simple as the story. She could not have the best of both worlds. She could only have the best and the worst of one. She knew that now.

Still, it was with a despairing and frigid exterior that she gazed upon him, her heart screaming at her to forgive him for all he had done to her, to the world, to _her_ world. She wanted, in that one, singular moment, for him to be the angel she thought him to be, to truly be the emblem of all she ever wanted, and ever would want. She wanted him to clasp her small, dainty hands in her own, crushing them with his great strength, pleading with her to be his. She would even accept him screaming and telling her that she could not leave, that his offer was forfeit. Anything but the silent, nonresistant defeat that made her miserable to witness, and was made hers to share.

"Very well. You will return to the world of sunlight at dawn."


	34. Seal My Fate

Okay, I know this chapter is short, so please forgive me in advance. I felt a distinct need to end the chapter there. Awful, I know, but a cliffhanger is just the thing to kickstart my imagination. ::Smiles cheekily::

I love all of you for sticking through. You're amazing. I really mean that. And I hope you enjoy this ridiculously short chapter. I'm starting the next one as this one uploads.

Enjoy!

,')-'-,-'----

_"But, if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise, that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her presence, sighing upon me in the evening winds, or filling the air which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels. And, with these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own."_

- **Eleonora**, E.A.P.

,')-'-,-'----

The grimy, slick surface of the labyrinthine walls of the catacombs were icy cold as Christine's pale fingers swept over them, their indifferent guidance aiding her from stumbling in the darkness. While she saw little, she was able to make out the rugged, uneven texture of the floor, her shoes making sickly squelching noises as she carefully trod, watching her feet every few seconds. Her eyes squinted pathetically, her sight no match for the veiled blindness that seemed to overtake one's vision within the underground realm.

Her silent companion, however, seemed unfazed by neither the bone-gripping cold, nor the impenetrable darkness, as his own mien was as frosty and stoic as the halls they swept through. He had uttered not a syllable since they had begun their ascension, and had continued to lead her in this manner, sweeping the both of them right and left, walking for minutes without turning and meeting several dead-ends, all appearing to lead in no direction. When he resumed his motion, however, he would still answer none of her silent questions, whether they were delivered in a silently pleading or glaring manner.

She had no reason to complain for his silence, yet she felt that even an utterance, tinged by bitterness and hate, would serve a far less harsh punishment than the one he was currently doling out. She was sure she would be fully inclined, if so commanded, to agree whole-heartedly that she deserved nothing greater. After all, she had, with little effort – or rather, she admitted to her own weak and foolish heart, a great deal of effort – thrashed another's dreams for happiness in order to pursue her own. Or, at least, what she would have previously deemed as her concept of happiness. Now, she was no longer sure of what true happiness entailed, or if any road would lead her to it.

It was with this dismal line of contemplation that they made their way, their manners both completely taciturn, to the surface. She noted, with what was hysterics and certainly a bit of shock, that she was not as elated to be returning to the world of demure hostesses and cheating gentlemen, of faux politeness and ostentatious culture. Though she knew this world was coupled with the certainty that she would be reunited with her darling Raoul, she wasn't sure if the joy in being with him outweighed the despondency of leaving behind Erik's world of beauty, music, and understanding. It was at this revelation that her heart began to hammer in her chest, her face began to heat, and her palms slick with not the moisture of the walls, but with her own perspiration.

_What am I _doing_? I made this decision on my own! I rejected the man before me, the man who would have made my very __**dreams**__ come true, all so that I could return to the world in which I am supposed to belong! …the world to which I _do_ belong…_

Even the voice in her head didn't sound certain. But it was too late for that, because they were before a door.

Only, it was not a door they were before, but a mirror.

_Strange…that almost looks like…_

She gasped, causing Erik to turn around, his eyes glittering with not merriment, but with challenge, as if goading her to try and be horrified by what she now realized. On her part, she did nothing, but merely met his gaze, looking properly guilty at her reaction, and by being there in the first place.

He turned back to the mirror, giving Christine not even the acknowledgement, and began to work at a mechanism that she would have never noticed, had he not began to fiddle with it. Once it was completed, the mirror swung forward of its own accord, in which Erik promptly stepped inside the room, looking at her expectantly.

She tentatively stepped over the threshold, looking over her shoulder when her feet finally met the carpet. It was a welcome relief to the cold, but a new type of cold replaced it. It was the cold of loneliness creeping back into her soul, the cold of dejection. She was being abandoned once more, only this time, she was abandoning another in turn. This time, the man in question had no heaven to go to, only a hell.

She moved a step closer to him suddenly, to which he sidestepped her and made for the entrance back into the catacombs.

"Wait!" she shouted pleadingly.

He stopped, his gloved hand a hair's breadth from the surface of the mirror, and turned his head to look at her over his shoulder.

"I know you can't forgive me, and I'm not asking you to. I just hope that you understand that I can't selfishly stay away when I know I'm causing someone else hurt."

He winced slightly at this, but made to cover it up by saying, in his most sure and compassionate tone, "I know."

She tried to smile half-heartedly, only causing a sob to escape her throat, unbidden.

At the sound of sadness, he immediately stepped closer to her, and when she did not flinch, move away, or look frightened, he rose his hand to her face and caressed her cheek, sighing contentedly when she leaned her face into his touch, her eyes closed. When they opened once more, she met what was surely the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, so beautiful in fact, that she knew that if she did not turn away, she would collapse into his arms and stay forever.

"I will never forget you. Ever." And she was gone.

,')-'-,-'----

He followed behind her, simply because he had no other choice.

He had foreseen many possibilities, all leading to the inevitable chilling of his heart, the freezing of the lifeblood within his veins, the stopping of all feeling, leaving only the desire for revenge, destruction, and glory, the keys tools to his life that had helped him survive in the past. It was the former, or such a complete feeling of emptiness that he would surely wallow in the deepest regions of misery and madness.

Her parting words had changed everything.

He was undeniably certain that, after years of solitude and banishment from the human race, he was already irrevocably and poignantly bound to the girl….woman, as she had redundantly exhibited herself to be. He was her slave, her chattel, whatever she wanted him to be. And yet, as much as he wanted to be whatever she needed him to be, as far as he would go to make her happy and content, he wanted her too badly to truly let her go completely.

She was completely free, in every literal and metaphysical sense of the term. He was, however, by no stretch of the imagination, so.

He was as in love with her now as he had ever been. More so, if it were possible. And he would finally be able to rid himself to his infatuation by letting her leave him for good.

But she would never leave him, not as long as he lived.

Silently and stealthily, he finally departed from the dressing room, shocked minutes after she had said her parting words, and made haste for the Rue Scribe entrance. Like the bitterly cold air within the tunnels, the air before the entrance was just as, if not more intensely cold, sending a spray of cold mist before his eyes. Patiently, he watched, vigilant as ever, for any sign of danger that might upset his plan.

With a sinking heart, he watched as the love of his life entered the carriage that he had arranged, watching as her coiled hair caught snowflakes delicately in the bountiful mass of brunette curls, her pale, drawn face turned upwards wistfully, as if taking in the structure to remember it always, and remember could might have been.

Suddenly, a shot of hot, raw panic washed down Erik's throat, making his head spin. Desperately, he shook himself awake, watching as a figure, a figure he knew well enough to be wary, and even fearful of, clutch Christine by the waist from behind and shove her into the carriage. Erik strained himself from lashing out onto the street, but was frozen to the spot in shock and outrage. The man quickly followed her inside, and yelled to the driver to move on.

As the vehicle moved away, and Erik's senses were lost to him, he pinpointed the exact article of evidence that he needed to prove his theory. With a boiling hatred, and deadly thirst of blood, he returned to the tunnels of his haunted domain to fulfill his dark purpose.

The coat of arms on the coach…

She had been right all along. He had been a fool for not foreseeing _this_.

But he _would_ correct the situation. And a woman would pay dearly for her crimes.


	35. Waking Nightmare

First of all, I want to apologize profusely for the hiatus from hell. Excuse the language. As it is, I really have no explanation, save pure laziness and a lack of inspiration. But here is the next chapter, which took me a year to finish. (I actually only finished it tonight - my roommate urged me and told me I simply had to complete it!) Thus, I shall do so…in good time.

Please excuse any discrepancies in grammar or spelling...I could not wait to release it. I will more than likely go back and edit later on.

For now, here is the end to the worry and nail-biting..enjoy!

,')-'-,-'--

"There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives,amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal."

- "**The Murders in the Rue Morgue", Edgar Allen Poe**

,')-'-,-'--

She did not remember falling into oblivion, but the moment she awoke from it she had decided she had passed out from pure shock. Unconsciously, her hand clenched around the tattered folds of her dress, blinking away her stupor and forcing her eyes to see clearly. Blearily, she drew to the conclusion that she was in great, great danger, and had a very slight chance of escape.

A fresh wave of panic descended upon her, and for the second time that day, darkness consumed her.

,')-'-,-'--

The barren, slate-gray expanse of the horizon took on a murky, chalky glow as the dawn approached and lifted the lifelessness in the air. The fragrance of dead winter, however, did not dissipate as the sun continued to rise invisibly through the steel clouds, futile in any attempt to punctuate the heavens with even the smallest shimmer of light.

Another unproductive week had vanished, and the Vicomte felt the everlasting, tangible blanket of despondency crystallize over his heart, clenching to his being like a second skin and wiping out all hope. The servants, by no means deftly, whispered frightened words in the halls, murmuring on about how the young master was steadily losing his grasp on reality, and how he was sinking deeper and deeper into the oblivion of depression with each day's pass. It certainly did not help that their loose tongues wagged so conspicuously, though the Vicomte paid no great heed to their cursed flippancies.

His brother had approached him in his grief, to his great consternation, on how to better occupy his time. It was his philosophy, being a businessman, that time lost was money spent, and he was steadily losing more and more with each thwarted attempt to find his beloved. He tried, to no avail, to lift the grievances of his brother by sparking his interest in other things. His favorite topic, of late, was the Mademoiselle de Douay, and how she was much inclined to share with him in his grief. Although Raoul would never ostentatiously catch another in a falsehood, he was acutely aching to acknowledge it.

His contemplations led him to return to his desk, but not before noticing a definite change in the atmosphere from the rest of the manor. He was convinced that another presence was in the room, but after taking a sweeping glance across the handsomely-attired room, he laid his mind at rest.

Just when his guard had been let down, a cold, leather-encased hand grasped his neck from behind, crushing his windpipe and causing a cold sweat to break cross his brow.

Raoul spluttered a few incoherent words, but was merely silenced from behind menacingly.

"We have precious little time, Vicomte, and pleasantries are certainly not on either of our minds, so allow me to come across, clearly, on why I have deigned to speak with you so early in the morning – or, rather, at all."

The voice was cold, confident, and deadly. While there was no doubt in his mind as to whom the speaker might be, Raoul was still baffled as to his purpose, and why exactly he was bruising his throat so needlessly.

He released him without warning, throwing Raoul forward in a graceless manner. Clutching a hand to his injured throat, he glared vehemently, or more accurately, hatefully, at his foe.

"_**You**_," he spat, his voice harsh and uneven.

The Phantom gazed back at him, and while Raoul could not be sure, he was convinced that the fiend raised an eyebrow at him behind his mask.

"I'm glad to see that we are indeed on good terms, Vicomte, otherwise any conversation would be most uncivil and disconcerting." A pause ensued. Then-

"Smugness does not bode well with gentlemen." Raoul quit his shocked and angry expression, however, and settled for a bitter, resentful one that made him look oddly pleased. "However, I'm sure it can be agreed upon that you, _monsieur,_ are no gentleman."

The strangely yellow-hued eyes shone back with defiance and intensity, causing the Vicomte's resolve to slip slightly out of place. "To be a gentleman, my dear Vicomte, one must belong to the race of man, and I, most certainly, lay no claim to belonging to a species of degenerate, loathsome beings," he sneered unpleasantly, though the beauty of his speaking voice remained unquestionable.

His bewildered expression earned him an embittered laugh from Erik, followed by a sudden jerking movement that led him to stand a few feet farther away. He turned to him sharply, as if irritable, and peculiarly, extremely anxious. "If we are settled in our usual exchange, monsieur, perhaps I might warn you of what has happened to your precious fiancé."

If the Vicomte was shocked previously, his mien was hardly similar to what previously lie upon it before. His astonishment soon dissolved and anger replaced it, causing his fists to clench and unclench, his knuckles starch-white. He was silent, however, as the internal war raged within him, to which the masked man continued indifferently.

"She has been kidnapped."

"_**What?!**_" Raoul was livid, his face flushed a deep crimson and his body shaking.

"By Douay. It is from my understanding that you are acquainted with them." His tone, disbelievingly, was accusatory, and his eyes were narrowed. Though his tone was neutral, Raoul sensed a deeper threat, so black and ominous that beneath his hot, boiling rage, he felt an uncertain fear and deeper insecurity.

Suddenly, his shaking lessened, his eyes narrowing in turn. "Your lie-weaving only seems to continue!" Raoul replied, scathingly. "If you are searching for any trail to find Christine, you may rest assured that even if I were aware of her whereabouts, or had some semblance of a hint, I would never leave such information in your grotesque hands."

Once again, gloved hands were latched around his throat, mere seconds after his sentence was complete. Belatedly, he had wondered why he didn't sense the approaching threat, especially once Erik realized the oncoming insult. He was close, dangerously too close, so much so that Raoul could smell the horrid, frozen stench of air on his face, and met the glaring, hateful, scorching eyes of the phantom and felt his own would be pierced by the passion in his gaze.

"Make no mistake, _monsieur_, that with or without your consent, much less your knowledge, I _will_ retrieve what has been taken and when I do, I will tell your fiancé of how her _beloved_ Vicomte would not come to her aid, simply due to the prejudices he holds against her savior. Believe me, it is precisely the variety of persuasion I need to win her."

He was speechless. Gazing back wordlessly, he moved his lips without any result. After a few moments, Erik released him impatiently, scoffing in a disgusted and displeased manner.

"It's true, then? She really has been kidnapped?" he finally said in a small, strained voice.

"Undoubtedly," Erik replied simply, passing a hand over his face – or, rather his mask.

Raoul took a few minutes to take in all that had been shared. Then, "If winning her, as you've said, is your true goal, why include me in your scheming?" He could not help but bite back a resentful drawl.

Erik looked at him sourly, as if being in the room with the man was enough to make him mildly ill. "If her decision is as final as I believe it to be, then the only thing left for me to do is make sure you don't wreck what I have already invested in. And her state of mind concerning you happens to fall into that territory."

He swallowed this tidbit of information indecisively, yet allowed his guard to slip just a little to allow more questions to flow. "And you have no doubt that Douay is behind this?"

"None."

"Would you happen to know precisely who, might I ask, from that particular line?" Raoul questioned, mockingly.

Erik stared back balefully, clearly annoyed. "I did not _see_ who, and even if I did, I would not have been able to identify the culprit."

"You _**saw**_ it happen?!"

"My powers of observation serve me quite well, Vicomte. Yes, I did see her taken."

"**Then why the bloody hell didn't you follow?!**" he all but screeched.

"Your tone leaves much to be desired. As well as your pitch. That could easily be remedied by a noose around the neck," he hissed.

"Is that a threat?"

"Your powers of observation appear to serve you suitably as well."

Raoul glowered for a split-second, closing his eyes and appearing to take a deep breath to remedy his anger. "Fine. It falls under your jurisdiction whether or not to tell me your reasoning for not saving her when you had the chance -,"

"_You do not know the circumstances…!_" Erik countered, oddly defensive and frightened-sounding. The sound, however, produced more of a frightened effect on the Vicomte.

Raoul swallowed. "Be that as it may, the situation still stands that Christine is endangered. I will not tolerate it, now that I know where she has been for this long."

The Phantom said nothing, only glared and stood resolutely.

"What do you propose?"

,')-'-,-'--

Her head felt unbearably heavy and dense, and her fingers and limbs did not seem to want to function properly. Nevertheless, she felt the haziness of sleep slipping away, and it was not without a morsel of remorse that she let herself become more fully awake.

However much of a prisoner she realized herself to be – _again_, she thought with wistful aggravation – she was not a badly treated one. Her back, though bruised from being shoved and slightly achingly from leaning unconsciously for quite a time in that carriage, was now lying on a fairly comfortable mattress with fairly warm sheets. She was, thankfully, still in her dress from whenever she was taken, and did not appear to have been mishandled any worse than she had been already.

Sitting up slowly, her head pounding to an unheard rhythm that pressed viciously against her skull, she took stock of where she was being held.

It was a decently-sized room, dressed in yellows and pale blues that reminded her of Easter, despite the frigid season they were currently in. The merry colors of the room seemed to mock her at every turn, with Swiss-styled furniture and lace window hangings shut tightly against the world.

It was a hollowly pleasant soft of prison.

"Oh good, you're awake."

She jerked, tense with apprehension, at the sound of the deep, booming voice from, what she realized, was the doorway. Being bolted minutes before, the large door was now open, a brightly golden light silhouetting the form of a man. A man she knew, by now, that was her captor and her stalker for quite time.

"This has been a long-planned ploy, then?" Christine whispered, her voice rough from her bruised body.

He approached menacingly, and with a rolling wave of recognition she could detect the way in which he walked, silent and eerie. It was nothing similar to Erik's walk. While both men gave off a definite sense of danger and violence, beneath this man's exterior there was no buried soul longing for compassion. There was simply blackness.

Pit-like, dark hazel eyes leered openly at her, taking in her form beneath the bed sheets, a maniacal and vicious gleam to them. A shiver of disgust made its way through her, and she struggled not to retch.

"Yes," he hissed, "you finally seem to have caught on." He circled around the bed to her left, appearing to find enjoyment out of hassling her. "But you seem so distraught, little girl. Are your accommodations not to your liking?"

The teasing pet name did not come naturally to his lips. In no way possible did it seem as if this man had an ounce of humor within him. Wary, Christine did not answer, only attempted to slowly sit up.

He swiftly pushed her back down with a sudden spark of violence. His entire demeanor changed in that one second, and pure antagonism exploded from his eyes, rather than just the throat of it from before. "Oh _no_, my dear, _please _do not trouble yourself."

She quietly sobbed, upset and more scared than she had ever been before in her entire life.

"But you must not cry, little girl. After all, what would Raoul say? Or even….Erik?"

Another sob hitched in her throat at the mention of Raoul, and abruptly halted at that of Erik.

"But…you can't…" she protested.

"You simply _must _not underestimate me, Christine. It is most unflattering." He leaned in close then, grasped a handful of her curls, and gave a harsh yank. She gave a loud howl of pain and grabbed his hand, which he had lain on the bed as if bowing her towards his figure, and attempted to pull him off of her hair. In response, he gave a second pull which completely tugged her off the bed and landed her at his face. She groaned in anguish, lying flat on her face and attempting to breath through the pain in her abdomen and lungs.

"Such a shame that such a pretty girl is so disobedient," he practically sneered, crouching down so that he was nearer to her. Taking a hold of her arm, he flipped her over so that she was lying on her back, her bloodshot and watered eyes blinking rapidly and staring at the ceiling. "And such a pretty bird you are, little girl…though, you are not so little, are you?" A calloused hand soon slithered out and rubbed against the inside of her thigh, causing Christine to bolt up at once and crawl away from him.

"_Get your hands _off _of me_!" she screeched, tears falling down her face unwittingly.

"Think you are so noble, after all the sneaking around you have gone on with? And how will your _noble _fiancé be able to _touch _you when he learns of your treachery? Of your dishonorable acts with your masked lover?"

"You know nothing," she whimpered scathingly, backing away using her feet and feeling uselessly used.

"Can you really say that comfortably when you _know _that I have been made witness? Many would think me a monster, little girl, but you-,"

Through her haze of anger, she raced across the room, only to be stopped in her tracks when she was met face-to-face with the dreaded evil behind the plot.

Someone she had never suspected.

Someone she had never thought to be so cruel.

Someone she should have guessed long ago.

"Leaving so soon?" Sorrel queried.

The sudden sensation of seeing her rendered her completely numb. It was a mind-crushing blow, leaving her somewhat breathless and oddly empty. Sorrel de Douay backed Christine up so far until her knees crashed into the foot of the bed, forcing Christine to sit and be at a lower level than the she-demon. Feeling emboldened despite her compromised position, Christine mustered what scattered dignity she had and replied with pride and spoke. "I had not thought you capable of such an intelligent operation, Sorrel. You have surpassed my judgement of you."

Sorrel visibly bristled. She quickly recovered however. "My, my, has imprisonment sure done wonders on your manners, Christine. Well, at least I have not forgotten mine. Indeed, haven't I provided you with all that a good host must?"

Christine took a reluctant glance around the room. She grudgingly attested that it was a fine room, and she could even see that plate had been left out for her when she awoke. However, the treatment by her henchmen and her openly glaring stare were anything but accommodating.

"What is it that you want?" Christine demanded, frustrated and frightened.

"What I want, darling, is very simple. Your life. Or, more appropriately, your likelihood. I feel as if I would sleep better without having to lead the double life that you do. How utterly exhausting that must be!"

Christine ignored the last comment. "My likelihood? What do you mean?

Sorrel did not pause in her tirade. Instead, she swung her hair to the side carelessly, examining the room in its perfection. "But your husband, of course. I wish to be Vicomtess de Chagny. It is certainly a title that you do not take remotely seriously, and therefore it should be mine. The rightful heiress to it. You are but scum that was luckily traipsed into the mansion."

Christine made a move as if to stand in outrage, but was soon pushed back by the henchmen, who moved so quickly it was as if he were a blur.

Sorrel look amused and highly superior. "If you are _so _anxious for an explanation, darling, I would be more than happy to supply you with one. You see, the love of your life was once in love with _me, _and it was to me that he was to be wed. But you see, I had a love of my own, and could not bare to be parted from him. But he was not a worthy suitor you see. _Below _me. He was forced from me and threatened that should he see me again he would pay. I never saw him from then on." She paused, more angry than before, but strangely vindictive in her demeanor.

"I refused to marry anyone, insisting that I would marry when I felt the urge, rather than being forced into it. My father was simply appeased that I had rid my infatuation, so he obliged. And then, I met your Raoul. He was a simple creature, charming and youthful and good and was quite taken with me, I might add," she purred, glaring haughtily as Christine raged against the arms of her enforcer. He simply tightened his grasp. "But I was simply uninterested. It was not until your dear brother-in-law-to-be came to me and simply _begged _that I try and separate you and Raoul. I agreed to that, and also, once you were out of the picture, to marry him as well."

"But you didn't care for him at all!" Christine shouted out. "You have no feelings towards him. Why should you destroy a perfectly happy situation?

"For several reasons, precious. One, personal pleasure. I would reap great pleasure as a sort of indirect vengeance against the world for repayment for what has been stolen from me. Two, to break the happiness of a good man, because in the end, good men always end up disappointing you." Her stony silence suddenly indicated that there was a lot Sorrel de Douay was not sharing as to her secret feelings.

"Three, money is a very large commodity which the Chagny family has. As our family is poor as mice, it is imperative that I marry and save my father from starvation. At once. And fourth…" she looked straight into Christine's eyes, more cold and calculating than ever before, "Why should you have the best of both worlds when _I_ could not?"

Christine was speechless. She could say nothing out of shock of all the information she collected. Sorrel smirked.

"You won't live much longer to rummage through the details at any rate, so do not trouble your pretty little head. It was all end soon."

Christine met her eyes at that, and without fear, said, "Tell me, _Lady Sorrel_, how does it feel to know that no man will stay with you, unless it is sheer force that is outside his will?

With a great slashing sound, Sorrel ran a row of sharp fingernails across Christine face, cutting her and drawing blood.

"How very amusing, Daae. But playing coy will no longer work. You have been deemed dangerous and too knowledgeable and thus you are a liability.

"I expect her to be dead by midnight tonight. If she is not, the next sight of blood will be yours," she spoke to the man.

He nodded, regarding her hungrily.

Christine watched in despair as Sorrel exited, wiping the blood from Christine cheek on a handkerchief.

,')-'-,-'--

I don't deserve reviews, but…

May I have them? Please?

I love you all. You are the best. I do hope you come back and read more!


	36. To Win The Chance To Live

So, as promised, I have continued to update and write this story. As a warning, there is some material in this chapter that pertains to sexuality, but it is nothing too serious, I _promise_ you. I couldn't seem to make myself go into the gory details. Heh. Also, as a special treat (coughs) there's two E.A.P. quotes here.

Enjoy! And please review!

,')-'-,-'--

_"From the lightning in the sky  
As it pass'd me flying by --  
From the thunder, and the storm --  
And the cloud that took the form  
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)  
Of a demon in my view --"  
- _**"Alone"**

_"Scorching my seared heart with a pain, not hell shall make me fear again."  
- "_**Tamerlane"**

,')-'-,-'--

It was deafeningly quiet once the door slammed behind Sorrel. Only the sound of her footsteps was noticeable under the palpitations of the increasingly anxious muscle inside Christine's chest. She was sure he could hear it as well, for once the vile woman had left their sight, he turned on her like a vulture.

"Alone at last…." he breathed, his voice as smooth as pine needles as he whispered into her ear. As his grip on her turned cobra-like, she immediately and instinctively tripped off the bed and stood far away from him, slowly inching towards the door even with his eyes locked on hers.

"No need to get all worked up so early, Christine," he intimated, withdrawing a long, sharp dagger from the far reaches of his coat and stroking it arduously. "After all, Lady Sorrel did give us several hours…very generously, if you were susceptible to viewing it that way."

Christine said nothing, only continued to watch him closely, both his eyes and his knife.

He took a few steps towards her, causing Christine to glance around in alarm. She realized that he was strategically moving her, angling his body in such a way that as he stalked towards her, she walked straight into a corner of the room. The heel of her foot met a dresser as she backed up, and she winced in pain when her back met the wall.

His face was a disturbing mask of seething malice. Without meaning to, Christine could not help but further compare this demon of a man before her to the enigma that was Erik. Both had such different masks of hatred and power, yet so vastly different that she could not even begin to describe how contrasting they were. But above all else, she noticed that whilst Erik's eyes were the only real part of him that were expressive, besides the small amount of his mouth that she could see, they held a passion so deep that no matter what he felt - pain, loneliness, fear, love - they shone with more light than the sun. The man in front of her, however, only seemed to absorb the light, but radiated none back. Like something dead.

"Keep in mind that this is strictly business. If that helps," he added matter-of-factly as he approached. "I get paid a pretty penny for slicing your pretty neck." He laid the edge of his icy blade against her neck, and with every carefully-collected breath, Christine could feel the sharpness of the metal against her skin. "However…" he sighed, running his other hand down her side until he reached her wrist and drew it up above her head, "I might choose not to kill you until that magical hour if you persuade me."

Christine's breathes turned panicked, and with a sharp intake of breath, she felt the blade slice gently so, without his bidding, and draw the smallest of red rivers to flow down her collar.

"The idea excites you, apparently," the sadist commented, watching with a sick kind of stoic pleasure as the edge of his knife made her bleed. "Seeing as how I am a gentlemanly kind of person," Christine sent him a very ugly look at that, which he somehow missed, "I will give you twenty minutes to think on it." When Christine's look of panic turned into full-fledged horror, he merely tried to calm her fears by rubbing his calloused fingers against her jaw. She shuddered in disgust. "Oh, do not feel trepidation, Christine. I assure you, it will not be a difficult decision to make." And with that, he was gone.

,')-'-,-'--

"Good God, man, it is the middle of the day. How do you suppose you will be received if you traipse across town with that thing on your face?"

Erik turned around on the middle of the stairwell and gave Raoul a disbelieving, irritated look. "Are you proposing I take off the mask, Vicomte? For if you are, be prepared for a monstrous and deadly visage to assault your vision."

When Raoul did not respond, Erik finished his descent, ignoring the sounds of shocked servants as he strode past them doing their menial jobs around the house. Raoul once again tried to protest against Erik's actions as the latter moved towards the horse stables.

"At least let us take the carriage -" Raoul began, but Erik cut him off sarcastically.

"Yes, my good Vicomte, let us take that ostentatious vessel of yours to the very place where we are most expected, to carry out the somewhat risky recapturing of a certain endangered and highly coveted possession." Erik shook his head disgustedly, carrying on towards the stables in a slinking, graceful manner that left Raoul somewhat bewildered, even after he had grabbed a hold of his senses and began to follow.

"She is not a possession, you know," Raoul contested, feeling somewhat put off that the very man who was most likely his enemy was leading him towards his own stables - and what was worse, was directing him as to what they should do! Raoul's distress was short-lived as his worry and anxiety began to accumulate.

"A possession is something that can be stolen, and stolen she has been." Erik began to saddle up the largest, strongest-looking horse as he said this. A thoughtful look came over his eyes then, and he added something, quietly. "Nevertheless, you are right, boy. She is certainly not a possession. Her childish stubborn streak would see to that."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Raoul demanded, defensive.

When Erik did not answer and only continued to fix the horse's reins, Raoul gave a strange start and complained, "That's my horse!"

Erik gave Raoul a pointed glare, and with a somewhat satisfied up-turning of the corners of his lips said, "Yes, and what a fine beast it is. Now would you be so kind as to take a horse? We really do have to be going, the matter is quite urgent." Erik said this last sentence quite menacingly, as if the boy weren't taking the situation very seriously at all.

Raoul grunted, and made a face. However, he followed directions and obediently took the horse in the next stable over.

"Now, listen very carefully boy, for I will not repeat myself. You will ride ahead and lead the way into town. You are not to stop to talk to anyone, and you shall not capture attention by riding fast or looking anxious. If anyone does call out to you, you are to stop and comment briefly on the weather. If they ask why you are riding a horse through town, you are to shrug it off and pass it as a mere fancy you had."

"People will think me mad," Raoul muttered discontentedly.

Erik did not pay attention. "When we reach the house, you will be standing guard outside while I break in and find Christine."

"Shouldn't we be calling the police? Have them do this?"

Erik gave the emotional young man a disapproving look. "Do you honestly believe that would work? A depressed nobleman and a disfigured maniac against the likes of one of the most respected families in Paris? You are as naive as you are foolish."

"Who do you call a fool, sir? Unless I am mistaken, and God help me if I am, you are the one who allowed Christine to be kidnapped in the first place!"

"I am not the man who made it possible for her to overhear that disgusting display of treachery!" Erik fumed, unable to contain himself any longer. Cold, stony rage filled his eyes.

Raoul was silent for several moments. "But you couldn't possibly have overheard -"

"There is only one thing," Erik stated, "that could have caused Christine to flee. Not until your horrid example of a brother practically professed his lowly opinion of your so-called 'love' did Christine try to get away from that house. And she went to the only other place she could. She is terrified of me at times, but at least she knows that I will forever treat her like the angel that she is, rather than a less-than-suitable option."

Raoul approached closely on his horse, ready to defend the honor of both his brother and himself. "What are you implying, sir? That I or my brother thinks the future mistress of my home and mother of my children isn't the most precious thing to me in this world?"

Erik flinched, the consideration of that future never once coming into his contemplations. The implications of that statement sent a very deep hurting through his heart, obliterating any smugness he felt over accusing Raoul of malignancy. "No. I am merely saying that we are equal in responsibility, and I ask that in this one endeavor, you follow what I tell you - that it has nothing to do with me, but everything to do with her."

Raoul considered this, and nodded gallantly. "Follow, if you can."

,')-'-,-'--

Once the frenzied tremors subsided, she was able to compose herself enough to allow the full enormity of her predicament to hit her. There was no doubt in her mind that there was a very good chance that she would not escape with her life. In fact, she was certain that that was the only possible conclusion.

Alternating temperatures of extreme hot and cold rose through her, and a furious profusion of moisture broke out across her brow. But with the migrating sensations of fear, regret, and sorrow passed, another thought more frightening than any possibility of death occurred to her: she was running out of time, and quickly.

She had choices, two very, very horrendously earth-shattering choices that could cause her world to crumble in its' very wake. On the one hand, she could die, saving her virtue and dignity and cutting out the remaining hours of waiting for her death. On the other hand, she could give in to the devil's desire, succumbing her body to the gratification of a lecher.

The thought sent waves of negative energy coursing through her as she stared out across the room blankly at a candlestick holder on the nightstand. She knew she could not do that to herself. She could not betray her beliefs, the very foundation on which she was raised for the sake of a few more imprisoned hours upon this unfair, wretched sphere. She could not betray Raoul that way; "sleeping with the enemy" took on a more frightening tone in that light.

Nor could she do that to Erik. She was sure that, if she did go through with it, the small part of her soul that did not already belong to him would be lost forever.

And yet, she did not want to die. Above all other things - above the shame she felt, the unworthiness of their love, the guilt of playing once against the other - she did not want to feel the clammy palms of Death. She had a passion for life, for all things living, and that had lived. To give in to death so easily would be a tragedy of the very greatest magnitude. She had to live. For her parents, for Mama and Papa Valerius, for Raoul, for Erik, and most of all, for herself.

The thought of Mama Valerius brought a flood of remorse that prickled viciously. To disappear off the face of the planet with no one to tell Mama the wiser would a very rare and ugly cruelty. She could not allow that to happen.

She wouldn't.

It was at the moment that the door crept slowly forward did she realize she had made her decision without consciously making it.

A sly, slimy grin adorned his face as he reentered the room. Christine stood slowly, bones creaking and weak with fatigue. She held tightly to the folds of her ripped dress to keep her sweating palms from shaking too fiercely and giving her away. Even so, she felt any false move she made would lead her to break out into violent sobs. It took every ounce of her strength to prevent herself from doing so.

"Made a decision, have we?"

Christine stared off in the other direction, unable to agree and yet unwilling to be sentenced so soon.

"Rejecting me then, are you? Well, I'm sure we can think of another task to occupy our time…" he said dispassionately as he raised the blade from the hidden sheath.

"No!" she cried out, stunned by the mouse-like quality of her own voice. She sounded desperate as well, a fact that was as distasteful as it was unhelpful to her cause.

To her shock, this seemed to only prove useful to her. His entire mien transformed, and at once he seemed less of a snake, and more of a panther. The metallic glint shone briefly and disappeared as he put it away, and for a moment he looked at her, as if assessing her willingness and which action next to take. It was not due to a lack of fervor or of confidence that he did not move. Rather, he seemed to be contemplating her, as if she were prey to be devoured and he was ascertaining the perfect way to seduce her.

In the end, it seemed as if commanding won out. "Come here," he barked curtly, yet in his tone was a subtle softness that at first was difficult to pinpoint. Christine discovered this soon enough, and realized with dawning comprehension that this was a very dangerous thing he was doing. If Lady Sorrel found out about this tryst, there was a very good chance he would be killed (after he had killed her, of course), for the sake of pride and jealousy.

Meekly, Christine tiptoed across the space between them, looking at her feet, afraid to meet his death's eyes. But even as the dread raced inside her, she let the calming and angelic voice of her mind's version of Erik sooth away her worries and guide her along. He commanded her to use her training, to use the natural gifts given to her to keep her alive.

Not only that of a vocalist, but of an accomplished actress as well.

This would prove very difficult indeed.

Although the actions were hers, the suppressed and buried part of her consciousness screamed and bashed out against what she was currently doing. It went against her very nature and personality, doing what she was doing, and yet she knew Erik and Raoul and whoever else she would probably answer to would forgive her for using her wiles thusly.

She looked up.

She could see the hunger in his face, the naked desire the rake felt by being so close to a woman who was ready and willing. But she knew that in that singular moment, she held the power, and that was something she had to keep - in whatever way she could.

Christine gave him a meaningful look - a look she hoped conveyed a sense of reciprocated desire that urged him to join her in this dance. Slowly, and with careful precision as to the movement of her hips, she walked towards the bed, facing the right side and beginning to unlace the back of her dress.

After several seconds of undoing the ties, she began to worry. He would come over and help her undo the rest, wouldn't he? What would she do if he didn't? She did not think her bravado could last much longer in this farce of a rendezvous.

Finally, she felt the callous and bruising fingers of her captor take up her task as her fumbling hands failed to aid her undressing. His rate was alarmingly fast, and she knew that at this moment of vulnerability, she had to act quickly.

With a motion so fast she wasn't sure if she had done it at all, she took the heel of her foot and slammed it into the curve of his boot. Moaning a sharp oath, he stumbled away from her, taken by surprise, which was the very reaction she was hoping for. Turning to face him, she quickly sidestepped the man as he attempted to reach out and restrain her. Missing, he fell on the bed with a loud thump, and at that exact moment, before Christine could think twice, she grabbed and raised the candlestick holder above his head and gave the assassin a sound whack.

His body jerked and crumbled like a rag dolls, and the large piece of furnishing fell to the floor. Horrified, Christine could only stand like a statue, breathing heavily and grasping her middle as the breaths stole in and out of her body. It had been simple, far, far too simple, and yet she knew now what she should have known all along. She was destined to live. And no one, not jealous witches, nor anyone else, could steal that right from her.

While the first job had been carried out, the second would certainly not be quite so easy: escaping unseen. With a shiver of horror, she overturned the man gently, not for his sake, but for hers. She removed the blade from his coat, and in doing so, also discovered a revolver and a small change purse. After collecting these items, she turned to go, but with a second thought, returned and, ever so carefully, removed his coat and donned it. With a smile, she walked out the door, an aura of pride and freedom trailing behind her.


	37. Lust For Blood

_"It will not do to whip...from left to right. If each blow in the proper direction drives an evil propensity out,  
it follows that every thump in an opposite one knocks its quota of wickedness in."_

- **"Never Bet The Devil Your Head",** **Edgar Allan Poe**

,')-'-,-'--

_Hours Earlier_

Raoul de Chagny had always considered himself to be a perceptive young man.

At the present moment, however, he wished he was not.

To say that today had been one of the most volatile days of his life would not have been a blatant inaccuracy. As a matter of fact, he would use that very same word to describe an irreversible association of his.

An association that was currently staring at him as if he were devising which way was best to sever the young Vicomte's head.

"Are you deliberately attempting to sabotage the plan, or is this a ridiculously unlucky talent of yours?" he said, hellfire in his eyes. If the notion were not so far-fetched, Raoul would have surmised that it was enflaming Raoul's very skin, as he suddenly did not feel well at all.

"I don't understand you," Raoul retorted. He knew he could have rephrased that differently, but he rather liked the way in which it came out.

"Imbecile," Erik muttered, pulling down the hood of his cloak and rubbing the bridge of the mask's nose. Raoul could not see how that action could be remotely soothing, as the mask was obviously covering that portion of his face. Skin-to-skin was an issue for him, wasn't it?

"I thought I had told you not to draw attention to ourselves," the Phantom could not help but hiss.

"I mightn't have startled the horse, had not a certain someone made mention of committing murder!"

"A passing fancy," Erik said loftily. "But I can make it _not_ so passing if that is what you wish." The joking in his voice was unmistakably hostile.

Scoffing loudly, half-disgusted and half-fearful, Raoul turned away from his masked partner. They might have been aiding each other, but in no way, shape or form were they about to become bosom companions.

Presently, both men were approaching the colossal home of Lady Sorrel de Douay and the Marquis de Douay - Erik, with a murderous gleam in his impatient eyes, and Raoul with an apprehensiveness that he could not conceal. The task before them was a daunting one, and Raoul could not help but formulate, in his mind's eye, the innumerous ways in which their plan could go wrong.

"How exactly do you plan on getting Christine out?" Raoul demanded. "Barge in and carry her out over your shoulder?"

"That was the general idea, yes," Erik complied, mocking Raoul in such a way that his mood visibly lightened. Any opportunity to mock his rival was an opportunity readily taken.

When Raoul felt himself blanch, Erik leapt down from _his_ horse, his cloak fluttering in his descent. "You were, perhaps, hoping for something with a little more propriety, Vicomte? I am sorry to disappoint, but we are at a point in this game where I will not show mercy. That vile, sadistic woman has taken something that is not hers, and I know what she intends to do with it."

Feeling somewhat queasy after Erik's last comment, Raoul could not help but ask what he meant. Unfortunately, the phantom was athirst, and it was of a quench that could not be slated until Christine was in their grasp again. The last glimpse he got of Erik was of a swishing inkiness and a distinctive length of rope.

"Erik? Erik!" Raoul shouted, panicked.

"Quiet, you fool!" he heard being shouted from somewhere around him, which immediately returned to him what Erik was about to do. He stood still for a moment, quaking with adrenaline and excitement at the chance to see his Christine again. He had been practically lifeless up until this moment, feeling this sort of dead numbness by being separated from her. Would she hate him very much for what had transpired? Would she still want to be with him?

"If you are quite done gawking, my dear Vicomte, I would ask that you kindly make yourself useful and **hide somewhere**." The voice was directly speaking into his ear, though he felt no presence behind him. And though he should have expected it, he did not, and promptly jumped out of his skin. Angrily, and not without a morsel of resentment, he did as he was told, feeling much like an exuberant, misbehaving child who had been scolded.

"As if I'm the one who should keep out of sight…" Raoul muttered under his breath.

"I heard that," a low voice quietly growled. It sounded as if he were rapidly moving away, and Raoul knew that it would do bet if he kept quiet and tried not to think on what would happen next.

,')-'-,-'--

The black, spectral figure had just completed thoroughly cursing the Chagny line in six different languages when he heard the familiar, hateful sound of human voices whispering.

He was on a murderous rampage, he knew that for certain. He had a mind that, without a single ounce of grief, he would do in any soul to come between him and finding Christine. Blood would be on his hands that day, and he would have no qualms about it.

He was currently hiding behind the staircase, devising the best method in which to go about searching for Christine. It was pure torment, waiting and listening and not doing a single thing in which to benefit her escape. And yet, he had only just entered the grotesquely-opulent house, and was loathe to make his presence known so early. To do so was to invite trouble, or much worse, chaos.

Chaos was indeed the one thing he did not want. It would make killing all the more easier.

Just because he knew he would kill anyone to get in his way did not necessarily mean he wished to.

As he was slinking out of the shadows, a demure looking pair of housemaids, no older than eighteen each, walked past a large bay window at just the same moment. They were silhouetted against the snowy, dismal landscape, quietly and politely minding their own business. Within the ten seconds, Erik had to make a choice, for they were heading right towards him, and he was directly in their line of sight.

Once their unconscious bodies hit the floor, Erik blamed his twisted, diminished ethics for keeping them alive. He hurried on.

The stairs were taken three at a time, and all without even a pinch of a sound. It was quiet, inordinately quiet on the second floor, a clear indication that something was taking place that _shouldn't_. There were several rooms, and Erik knew that he had only one opportunity to raise hell before the entire house was alerted to his presence. Therefore, he did what he did not do (surprisingly, as there was very little he didn't excel in) best.

He opened all of the doors loudly and spontaneously.

To his supreme misfortune, they were all empty, save the very last door at the end of the narrow, grandiose hall, which he saved for last. In it was something he very much did not expect.

As Erik walked into the large, well-furnished bedroom that belonged to the master of the house, his eyes were assaulted with a plethora of objects. Mainly, large statues that adorned the various corners of the room, paintings that hung delicately, carpets laid carefully and pristinely as to invite warmth into the room, and an ill man lying on a down comforter in a large, soft-looking bed.

Erik dared to step no further, but did so nonetheless, as he knew that servants were coming and that he had to act quickly.

"Where is your daughter?" he demanded.

"Who are you?" a hoarse voice answered weakly, the frailty apparent in the sound. From his distance, Erik could ascertain that the man's eyes were blearily looking at him, but he did not appear to see him. Instead, he looked as if he were staring past him, not caring for his appearance enough to make anything out of an ordinary appraisal.

"You waste my time, old man. The longer you keep me the better chance you have of being silenced. Now, once more, where is Sorrel?" he asked once again, harsher this time.

"Sorrel…" The way in which the man said her name was the most mournful sound Erik had heard in a long time. It was a combination of belligerence, confusion and immense sorrow, as if he dearly loved this person but they were now a stranger to him. "How could you…"

"How could I, what, precisely?" Erik was beyond rage, but he was curious as well. What could the man be speaking of?

"My darling, my darling…" the man lamented, his ginger hair rustling over the silk pillow covers as he shook his head. "What have you done…?"

Erik was frantic now. Was he speaking about Christine?

He had not remembered this man being so fragile. The last time he had laid eyes on him - the first time he met Christine, ironically - he had been full of life, of luminosity. He was a gracious and exuberant host, and had welcomed everyone into his home like a gentleman. Now, here he was, lying in bed, sickly and subdued…

Something did not make sense. Hurriedly, Erik rushed over to the man's nightstand, taking in the various articles. On it was a tray laden with fruits, biscuits and tea. Suspiciously, Erik lifted the tea to his face, peered into the surface, and swished the contents around thoughtfully. Removing his glove, he dipped his finger into the liquid, and rubbed his forefinger against his thumb. The liquid felt brittle, not at all as slippery as normal tea would be.

_Poison_.

It was not enough, of course, to cause death, but certainly enough to weaken and cause great pain. Would Lady Sorrel go to such lengths to wreck an engagement? Was there more to this?

What if she was simply trying to prove a point?

"Wench," Erik mumbled, pouring the contents of the drugged drink onto the floor. Glancing at the man on the bed who writhed in distress, Erik summoned up what little sympathy he had, readying himself to help ease the pain. Unfortunately, at that moment, a handful of servants had rushed in, all with instruments of weaponry.

Menace combusting in his core, Erik positioned himself defensively for a confrontation.

"Who are you and what do you want with the Marquis?" a fair-haired, slim man asked.

"Tell me where I might find Lady Sorrel and I will spare your lives."

The group shared a quick laugh to cover their uneasiness at the appearance of the stranger. "As if we would do that," another answered.

"Very well," Erik yielded.

The first two came flying at him rather uproariously, flailing around what objects they had picked up on their way to him. They went down quickly, being knocked unconscious with one blow. Another two, heavier men came at him with knives, which Erik expertly blocked and ripped from their hands. They took to trying to catch him at a disadvantage, as he was without a weapon, but soon learned that he did indeed carry one once his Punjab was released. Still loath to draw blood, Erik took a blow to the gut before cutting down one, and suffocating another with his rope. The last man, the one to speak to him, attempted to get away before Erik caught him in his grasp as well. The noose was around his neck before the man could blink, and stood, staring in pure fear, at the man before him.

"Now," Erik contended, clearly annoyed that he had been outnumbered, though his brute strength had aided him against more than five times his weight in body mass. "You were telling me where Sorrel was."

The man opened his mouth to speak, but only choking sounds came out.

Rolling his eyes, Erik loosened the knot, glaring impatiently.

"She…took….the girl….away….from here…" he began, his voice strained.

"**_What?_**" Erik hissed, not expecting the turn of events. "_Where?"_

,')-'-,-'--

The sky was dark as ash, and the snow was falling thick and fast. Her bare feet, already numb with the cold, had turned a sickly, bruised shade that could have been identified as blue, puce or yellow. She did not allow this minor setback to deter her, however - if she stopped now, she wouldn't be able to continue on.

It was as if she were going off of this strange high, one of the tunnel vision variety that did not let her pause and take stock of her decisions. The minute she had done bodily harm to another, her blood had changed. The deliberate act could have even been fatal, but in this heightened sense of survival, she put up a barrier to this possibility, for thinking on it would not help her cause.

One of the reasons why her adrenaline had continued to fuel her flight was that it had been too easy. Her hackles remained raised, for she feared that at any moment, her luck would run thin. Therefore, she let her instincts lead her on, not caring to stop to find a blanket or some fabric to keep her warm once she left the house.

She received a great shock when she left the prison-cell of a room. Instead of the lavish, richly-decorated manor that Lady Sorrel and her father boastfully occupied, she stood in a tiny, one-bedroom cottage whose only other room served as a living room as well as a kitchen. The fire in the grate was pitifully waning, as if the last occupant of the place had left long ago, and even then had neglected it. The table that sat in the middle of the room was dingy, and the plates upon it broken. As a testament to the run-down and shabby look of the place, not a soul had breathed there besides herself, and hopefully, her captor.

Apparently, Lady Sorrel really did hate to get her hands dirty, much less her sheets and floors.

So, shivering, scared, and befuddled, she fled, resisting the urge to turn back and wait for someone to find her. The rational part of her mind told her, however, that no one was looking for her, and that to hope someone would come in to save her was a foolish and heady notion. Erik had wanted nothing to do with her anymore, and Raoul had likely forgotten her.

Just as despair began to set in as she stood in the middle of an icy, ambiguous glade, a carriage, driven by a wizened, balding man, drove by.

"Monsieur!" she called out, breathing a great gulp of relief at seeing another human being.

The man, to her surprise, was none other than Raoul's driver, Bailey.

"Mademoiselle Daae?" he asked, clearly shocked as well.

"Bailey! Oh thank God," she practically panted, throwing herself against the side of the carriage. I shook slightly from her effort, but she paid no attention.

"My dear girl, what are you doing out here? And in this condition!" he lamented, taking in her shoeless feet, ripped and ruffled garments, and slashed face. The buttons on her dress were only half-way done, causing Bailey to look uncomfortable and shameful for seeing. Christine noticed his discomfort, and hastily began to fix herself, apologizing profusely in the process.

"No matter, no matter!" he wailed, clearly distressed at her pitiful state. He climbed down from his position as driver and began to help her in. "Hurry, hurry, mam'selle, get inside before you catch something!"

Complying, she got into the back, sighing at the warm environment and the slowing of her heartbeat. Bailey, after following her inside, grabbed a shabby fur coat from off the floor and promptly set it about her shoulders.

Without a moment's passing, he immediately dove in. "Mademoiselle, what are you doing out here? Is this where you've been this entire time?"

Christine shook her head ruefully, negation clearly plastered across her features. "Absolutely not. I was just brought out here, monsieur. Dragged really," she added, looking out the window to make sure no one was approaching. Or worse, that her captor had awoken and was after her.

"Tell me what happened," he gently pressed.

Christine conveyed the story with deliberate finesse and stamina, as if to relate the full experience so that Bailey would be under no assumptions that were not stringent truths. He remained peacefully quiet and contemplative throughout the account, only furrowing his mousy brow at different intervals and gasping at others. Then -

"He didn't hurt you, did he? Need I take you to a physician to be looked over?" Bailey kindly inquired, looking her up and down, as if trying to find where she was hurt.

"I'm fine. I wasn't hurt very badly."

"But mademoiselle, your face…" he implied, reaching out as if to touch her cheek.

As if having forgotten the encounter, Christine laid the pads of her fingertips against her cheek. The flesh was raised with two parallel scratch marks that ran from the hollow of her cheek to the corner of her lip, where the susceptible flesh had ripped and drawn blood. Licking her cracked and bloodied lips, she felt the point where Sorrel's nails had dug deep enough to cut her. Suddenly, and with such an intense wave of emotion, Christine began to weep, heavily and without letting up, on Bailey's shoulder.

He held her loosely in his arms, allowing her to let her pain and despair pour out of her soul. It had been contained for so long, all that she felt, and it was finally time to let it be freed.

Several minutes had already passed, and once Christine was well enough to speak, she looked up at Bailey with worry in her large, child's eyes. Eyes that no longer knew how to handle the wrongs of the world.

"We've stayed too long, Bailey. We must leave at once. I'm afraid…"

She did not need to continue. He understood.

"Where to, Christine?" Though he thought he already knew the answer.

"Home," she answered plainly. "Take me home."


	38. The Torment and The Tears

AN: Wow, that was a month from hell. Sorry guys, school really kicked up these past few weeks, and it was tough. But I'm still around, I promise! I know I'm dragging this, but it's only two or three more chapters now. I know, such a shock! We'll see how this plot plays out..it's not originally how I had planned at all. But you never know...I might just keep my original idea, and integrate it somehow;-)

Anyways, please enjoy, and if you have thirty seconds...review!

PS - This is the first non-EAP quote. I've wanted to use it forever, so I'm posting it now.

,')-'-,-'--

"What is the difference between love and obsession? Didn't both make you stay up all night, wandering the streets, a victim of your own imagination, your own heartbeat?...It hurt, like a pin in your bottom, a stone in your shoe. It didn't go away in the blink of an eye…"  
**–****The Ice Queen, Alice Hoffman**

,')-'-,-'--

It was not twenty minutes later that Raoul found himself, nervous and flustered, crouching in a rather sectioned-off corner of the courtyard leading to the de Douay home. Surrounding the house was a five-foot tall hedge maze, and from where he was, the house itself was no less than two hundred feet away, leaving him a clear view of the right side of the front of the house.

It was impossibly cold out, and the irksome feeling of being left as watchman for his inaptitude to this sort of thing was really quite vexing. More than anything he wanted to storm into the house, breaking down all the doors, and raising a fury unlike anything any member of that household had ever seen before, if only for the sake of seeing Christine's face. The only comforting sound was that of the soft snorting of the two horses resting out of sight near the gates, and the consistent twisting of his wrist in his hand.

He had been staring back and forth between the house and the spot where the horses were, and just as he redirected his gaze back to the animals, Erik appeared, causing Raoul to make an astonished sort of sound and to choke on frigid air.

"Where the bloody hell did you come from? Where is Christine? If you were wrong -,"

"We are leaving," Erik stated, neither acknowledging Raoul's outburst nor choosing to look at him. His tone was strange, as was his gait, and Raoul couldn't quite make out his state of mind. Nevertheless, he trod on.

"Oh? And where do you propose we go? If she's not here than it is obvious that you were mistaken, and have taken me on a wild goose chase." He did not enjoy being made a fool of, and would be damned before he was made a mockery of before this madman.

Erik stood stationary beside the horses, looking, if possible, more belligerent than before. "I will not go into the particulars for the sake of saving time, but I discovered that your oh-so-dear family friend never brought Christine here."

"She is not a friend -," Raoul began angrily, hissing so violently it appeared as if his entire face were on the verge of taking on a new shade of red.

"However," Erik continued, as if Raoul never interrupted, "she is keeping her in a house nearby."

Raoul glared, resisting compliance and ready to abandon Erik to begin his own search for Christine. He, however, had no leads, so he would try and stretch his patience as far as it would go. "Do you know the location?" he asked in a bored voice, already weary of their escapade.

Erik smirked. Standing behind Raoul was a man with rather prominent bruises on his neck and a less than happy expression on his face. He held the reigns of a disgruntled horse who tossed its head, clearly as aggravated as his master.

"I'm going to be sacked for this," the man muttered bitterly, eyeing Erik with open disdain.

"That will be the least of your worries if you don't show us where your beast of a mistress is holding Christine Daae," Erik said through clenched teeth. Something in his demeanor must have generated great trepidation in the manservant, for he suddenly moved quickly, as if he had been physically shocked.

When Raoul joined Erik in mounting the horses, he quietly asked, out of earshot of de Douay's servant, "Are you certain he won't just lead us astray? What if Sorrel had warned him in the case that something like this might happen?"

Erik's eyes crinkled knowingly in what might have been the most amiable vibe he had given off thus far. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a shabby, dirt-encrusted change purse that jingled delicately as if was withdrawn. "If he wants his property to be returned to him, he will comply."

Raoul returned Erik's smirk, his dubiousness fading far more quickly than it had lasted.

,')-'-,-'--

What they discovered was certainly nothing either of them would have expected.

The run-down, meager excuse for a home that they encountered was nothing more than a hole in the wall, creaking and letting awful drafts waft through the rooms and leaving frost behind. It was both chilly and foreboding, and both men seethed with anger that Christine was brought to such a place.

The minute they stepped over the threshold and into the drafty old place, the Douay manservant immediately exclaimed, "I've done my part! I'll be havin' my money back now!"

Erik glanced his way, sending him a very dark look. "I do so hate to be taking up your time, but as our mission is of such little importance to you, perhaps you would like to lead the way. Get the job done a little bit quicker, hmm?" Erik suggested, goading the man into stepping into the other room, and what was one more, the unknown.

"You ain't sendin' me in there! That man of hers is something mighty frightening." The man shuddered, recalling the hooded figure who surely took Christine and kept her hostage. Erik grasped the man by the collar of his shirt, and just as Raoul was making a protesting sound in the back of his throat, shoved the man into the door of the room.

He fell through and into the other room with very little difficulty, stumbling gracelessly. He sent a hateful glare towards Erik, which went unnoticed. Erik was far more concerned with the disheveled state of the room.

It was empty, looking as though someone had left it not but a few minutes prior to their arrival. Upon closer look, it looked as though it were a glorified prison inside a hellhole, serving to confuse the prisoner as to his - or her - location. The rich bed sheets were misplaced in the room, as well the lush Egyptian cotton curtains and the smart décor. It was a clever illusion, but just that - an illusion.

The three men stepped inside, appraising the room, each silently and with a degree of cautious observance. Whilst Erik's and Raoul's thoughts seemed to be in sync, the third man's did not.

"I'll have my purse, if you two won't begrudge me my property," he spat, eyeing Erik's cloak pocket with a rather greedy gleam to his eye. It did not help his cause that he was poised as if for flight.

"Not so fast, my good man," Raoul congenially said, looking to Erik for consul. The latter was still studying the room, searching for signs of Christine - a strand of hair, a ribbon, anything.

"You'll give me back my property -!"

"Or what?" Erik growled, turning away from his search and shooting daggers out of the eyeholes of his mask. "If you wish to have your measly belongings returned to you, you will learn some patience. Or perhaps you would like to test my agility against yours once again, monsieur?"

The smaller man merely grunted, averting his eyes and shuffling his feet.

Erik returned to his work, only to have Raoul become his pestering overseer. "This is, once again, pointless, Erik. I see nothing that could indicate Christine's presence here."

Erik lowered himself, balancing his weight on the tips of his toes with his knees folded. "A handkerchief, boy," he commanded, holding out his hand towards Raoul without turning around.

Scowling, Raoul removed a handkerchief from his person and handed it to the masked man. "What game are you playing at?" he asked blithely.

Ignoring his question, Erik pressed the handkerchief into the carpet and as it came up, a brown-red stain appeared on the silk. "Blood," Erik said tonelessly.

Raoul balked. "Who's?"

Erik scoffed in the back of his throat. "I am many things, Vicomte, but a psychic, I am not." He looked up, ruffling the sheets on the bed and tossing them about. There were several pinpricks of red upon them as well. "Here, too." He paused thoughtfully, his eyes trailing to the floor and the contents upon them. His eyes stopped upon the candlestick holder, as well as several smaller objects that he could only see by getting onto his knees. A few strands of hair….and a button.

He picked up the button with his thumb and forefinger and placed it in his palm. It was a pearly color, and small, but large enough to look as if it could be placed on a dress. It was obviously feminine. Accompanying it were a few shimmering, glossy strands of brown hair. Erik's fist closed around the object shakily, his entire demeanor stiff and taciturn. Raoul's patience, however, was already shot, and he could no longer keep up his newly-inherited sequacious pretense.

"What, Erik?" Raoul raised, attempting to educe some type of feedback from him. "Is there something prominent you would like to share?"

He stood suddenly, surprising both Raoul and the Douay man. His aura was ferocious, a wild thing about to latch out at a moment's notice. "If you are squeamish, Vicomte, I would advise that you leave the rest of the search to me."

"Out of the question!" Raoul objected, walking over to where Erik stood and meeting his eyes, standing just a few inches of the shade's height. Still, though his frame was still, he inwardly quaked by being so close to the fathomless being. "You fail to keep in mind, monsieur, that Christine Daae is my fiancé, and as such, once this search is over, she will return to the Chagny household!"

The smoldering gold eyes of Erik burned brightly like lamps on a dark night. "We may, if you so wish, later on discuss the subject of Christine on a more extensive level, but at the present moment I am speaking of removing one particularly loathsome being from existence. **His **life is **mine**."

Just as Raoul was about to retort, a shuddering sound echoed through the small room, apparently borne from the adjacent room. They all heard the low curse of a baritone voice, and with a chilling, lurid smile, Erik put a gloved finger to his lips.

At that moment, the door to the room burst open, the dark-clad man who had assaulted and stolen Christine entering with a swagger and a fiendish grimace on his face.

"Salutations, monsieur," Erik greeted in a most haunting, corroding manner. He stood apart from the other two men, his posture commanding. "I have been quite eager to make your formal acquaintance. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Opera Ghost, also known as the Angel of Death, to the royal court of Persia at least. Allow me to service you as I have them."

,')-'-,-'--

The rickety old carriage soon came to a standstill, and Christine's eyes remained closed. She did not slumber, but was merely attempting to shut up the world. She did not think, or remember, or imagine. She simply was. Thinking was too painful, and remembering too harsh. To imagine anything for herself anymore was torment, and if it were at all possible, she would happily crawl up inside herself and spend forever in her enclosed shell.

She heard the door to the carriage open creakily, and let the heavy, comforting sound of Bailey's breathing fill her ears. Her eyes were rimmed with red to match the scars of Sorrel's nails, and tears clung to her lashes diligently. She heard him sigh, then felt his coarse, veined hands take hers in his.

"We've arrived, mademoiselle," he spoke to her, his voice a whisper of comfort.

She nodded, a false smile plastered to her lips. "Thank you," she mouthed, setting her throat on fire. She winced, the hurt in her soul becoming more palpable as the adrenaline rushed out of her blood.

"Is there anything I can do for you, mademoiselle? Anyone I should contact? A physician perhaps, or a messenger to take a note to the Vicomte -"

"I just need to get inside to Mama, and I am afraid I need your assistance for that, my friend."

Without a moment of hesitation, the older man helped Christine into the house of her Mama Valerius, who, upon Christine's arrival, gave a mingled cry of dismay and euphoria.

"Christine! My dear, what has happened? Where have you been this long time? And without contacting me! My dear girl I was quite beside myself for worrying!"

"All shall be explained in due time, I promise, Madame," Bailey quietly commented, leading Christine, with Mama Valerius' instruction, inside the room that Christie had once assumed as hers. Placing her on the bed, she fell into unconsciousness straight away, exhaustion and fright having given her body no reprise.

"What happened to my Christine, monsieur?" Mama Valerius asked, wringing her hands in her skirts.

Bailey briefly explained, giving Mama Valerius what only, he himself, knew.

Clutching her heart, she let out a sorrowful moan, rushing to wrap blankets around Christine's frame and readjusting her head on the pillows. "How could this have happened," she lamented, smoothing out the lines of worry on Christine's forehead. "Raoul had promised that Christine would be in the best of hands by staying with him, and that he would take care of her always." She turned to Bailey with a frown. "Excuse my poor manners, monsieur. Anastacia Valerius," she said, shaking his hand.

"Bailey Edgand," he returned solemnly.

"What happened, monsieur?" she asked emphatically.

"I will tell you all I know. But I fear only she can fill in the blanks," he replied, leading her into the corridors of the house, away from the slumbering, devastated young woman.

,')-'-,-'--

The man's lips turned into a mockery of a smile, a cruel twisting of the mouth that disgusted the viewer. "Ah, so the cavalry has arrived," he sneered. "But are they too late?" He looked about himself, spreading his hands. "But where is the girl?"

"What have you done with her?" Raoul quietly questioned, intensely focused.

The man in black examined his hands, rubbing his calloused palms. "The better question," he returned, licking dark lips malignantly, "is what have I not done with her?"

Erik exploded, grabbing the man by the neck in a fit of rage, slamming him against the door. The man spluttered in shock, but soon began to chuckle.

"I can understand your animosity," he whispered, quite enough so that only Erik could hear. "I know of how you crave her. And how she craved you. She would moan your name…" Erik tightened his hold on the man's jugular, seeing red. The scoundrel continued, nonetheless. "Pity that your chance has come and gone…"

"Erik, stop!" Raoul shouted, trying to pull on Erik's shoulder. He did not so much as budge, but threw Raoul off of him. "Kill him and we won't know what happened with Christine."

Reluctantly, Erik removed his hands and took a step back, keeping the man in his sights in case he tried anything. Raoul withdrew his rapier from the sheath at his side, pointing it at the man's eyes.

"Now, once again, where is she?" he demanded.

Straightening the collar of his coat, Sorrel's man shrugged elegantly, pursing his lips nonchalantly. "Could be anywhere by now," he supplied, looking about the room indifferently. "After I was finished with her, I had someone take the poor child away. A shame really, but your combined antics - hers especially - really gave the girl no chance at being allowed to live…"

Erik growled lowly, flexing his hands at his sides. Raoul began to intervene softly. "Patience…," he urged.

"You are a man of business, Monsieur de Chagny, are you not? Surely you understand a deal, and how the particulars must be carried out…?"

No one replied, only staring at the madman stonily.

He paused, smiling a devilish grin. "If it would please you to know, she was a courageous little thing. Did not scream too loudly, nor protest too much. I always liked that in a woman. Never would scream loud enough for others to hear…"

Erik once again made a dash for the man's throat, but the sight of a gun being held by Sorrel's man stopped him in his tracks directly. The humored light in his eyes was gone. He was bloodthirsty, more now than ever, and showed no hesitation.

"Your little wench is long dead, gentlemen. I would advise you to walk away before I kill you both."

"Not before I see the life fade from your pupils," Erik vowed, his voice a chorus from the grave.

"Very well."

A shot, a stab of pain, and a blinding white light.


End file.
